But Orlando, all the same, went on thinking. He had indeed much to think of. For when he tore the parchment across, he tore, in one rending, the scrolloping, emblazoned scroll which he had made out in his own favour in the solitude of his room appointing himself, as the King appoints Ambassadors, the first poet of his race, the first writer of his age, conferring eternal immortality upon his soul and granting his body a grave among laurels and the intangible banners of a people’s reverence perpetually. Eloquent as this all was, he now tore it up and threw it into the dustbin. “Fame,” he said, “is like” (and since there was no Nick Greene to stop him, he went on to revel in images of which we will choose only one or two of the quietest) “a braided coat which hampers the limbs; a jacket of silver which curbs the heart; a painted shield which covers a scarecrow,” etc. etc.