Mar. Now I know I am going to be drunk. came to be excepted by name in the late Act of Dan. How canst tell, dry-bones?

Mar. Because I begin to be melancholy. That's always a sign.

Fran. Take care of Martin, he'll topple off his seat else. [MARTIN drops asleep. Peter. Times are greatly altered, since young master took upon himself the government of this household.

All. Greatly altered.

Fran. I think every thing be altered for the better since His Majesty's blessed restoration.

Peter. In Sir Walter's days there was no encouragement given to good house-keeping.

All. None.

Oblivion.

Dun. Shall I tell the reason?
All. Ay, do.

Dan. 'Tis thought he is no great friend to the
present happy establishment.
All O monstrous !

Peter. Fellow servants, a thought strikes me. -Do we, or do we not, come under the penalties of the treason-act, by reason of our being privy to this man's concealment ?

All. Truly a sad consideration.

To them enters SANDFORD suddenly.
Sand. You well-fed and unprofitable grooms,

Dan. For instance, no possibility of getting Maintain'd for state, not use; drunk before two in the afternoon.

You lazy feasters at another's cost,

Peter. Every man his allowance of ale at break- That eat like maggots into an estate,
And do as little work,

fast-his quart!

All. A quart!!

(In derision.)

Dan. Nothing left to our own sweet discretions. Peter. Whereby it may appear, we were treated more like beasts than what we were-discreet and reasonable serving-men.

All. Like beasts.

Mar. (Opening his eyes.) Like beasts.
Dan. To sleep, wagtail!

Fran. I marvel all this while where the old gentleman has found means to secrete himself. It seems no man has heard of him since the day of the King's return. Can any tell why our young master, being favoured by the court, should not have interest to procure his father's pardon?

Dan. Marry, I think 'tis the obstinacy of the old Knight, that will not be beholden to the court for his safety.

Mar. Now that is wilful.

Being indeed but foul excrescences,
And no just parts in a well-order'd family;
You base and rascal imitators,

Who act up to the height your master's vices,
But cannot read his virtues in your bond:
Which of you, as I enter'd, spake of betraying?
Was it you, or you, or thin-face, was it you?
Mar. Whom does he call thin-face?

Sand. No prating, loon, but tell me who be

was,

That I may brain the villain with my staff,
That seeks Sir Walter's life!
You miserable men,

With minds more slavish than your slave's estate,
Have you that noble bounty so forgot,

Which took you from the looms, and from the
ploughs,

Which better had ye follow'd, fed ye, clothed ye,
And entertain'd ye in a worthy service,

Fran. But can any tell me the place of his Where your best wages was the world's repute, concealment?

That thus ye seek his life, by whom ye live.

Peter. That cannot I; but I have my con- Have you forgot too,

jectures.

How often in old times

Dan. Two hundred pounds, as I hear, to the Your drunken mirths have stunn'd day's sober man that shall apprehend him.

ears,

Carousing full cups to Sir Walter's health ?--
Whom now ye would betray, but that he lies
Out of the reach of your poor treacheries.
This learn from me,

Our master's secret sleeps with trustier tongues,
Than will unlock themselves to carls like you.
Go, get you gone, you knaves. Who stirs? this

staff

Shall teach you better manners else.

All. Well, we are going.

Enquire the times and seasons when to put
My peevish prayer up at young Woodvil's feet,
And sue to him for slow redress, who was
Himself a suitor late to Margaret.

I am somewhat proud: and Woodvil taught me
pride.

I was his favourite once, his playfellow in infancy,
And joyful mistress of his youth.

None once so pleasant in his eyes as Margaret.
His conscience, his religion, Margaret was,

Sand. And quickly too, ye had better, for I see His dear heart's confessor, a heart within that Young mistress Margaret coming this way.

[Exeunt all but SANDFORD.

Enter MARGARET, as in a fright, pursued by a Gentleman, who, seeing SANDFORD, retires muttering a curse.

Sand. Good morrow to my fair mistress. "Twas a chance

I saw you, lady, so intent was I

On chiding hence these graceless serving-men,
Who cannot break their fast at morning meals
Without debauch and mis-timed riotings.
This house hath been a scene of nothing else
But atheist riot and profane excess,

Since my old master quitted all his rights here.
Marg. Each day I endure fresh insult from the

scorn

Of Woodvil's friends, the uncivil jests
And free discourses of the dissolute men
That haunt this mansion, making me their

mirth.

Sand. Does my young master know of these

affronts?

heart,

And all dear things summ'd up in her alone.
As Margaret smil'd or frown'd John liv'd or
died;

His dress, speech, gesture, studies, friendships,
all

Being fashion'd to her liking.

His flatteries taught me first this self-esteem,
His flatteries and caresses, while he loved.
The world esteem'd her happy, who had won
His heart, who won all hearts;

And ladies envied me the love of Woodvil.
Sand. He doth affect the courtier's life too
much,

Whose art is to forget,

And that has wrought this seeming change in him,

That was by nature noble.

'Tis these court-plagues, that swarm about our
house,

Have done the mischief, making his fancy giddy
With images of state, preferment, place,

Marg. I cannot tell. Perhaps he has not been Tainting his generous spirits with ambition. told.

Perhaps he might have seen them if he would.

I have known him more quick-sighted. Let that pass.

Marg. I know not how it is;

A cold protector is John grown to me.
The mistress, and presumptive wife, of Woodvil
Can never stoop so low to supplicate

All things seem changed, I think. I had a A man, her equal, to redress those wrongs,
friend,

Which he was bound first to prevent;

But which his own neglects have sanction'd

rather,

Both sanction'd and provok'd: a mark'd neglect,
And strangeness fastening bitter on his love,
His love, which long has been upon the wane.
For me, I am determined what to do:

To leave this house this night, and lukewarm
John,

And trust for food to the earth and Providence.
Sand. O lady, have a care

Of these indefinite and spleen-bred resolves.

Sand. 'Twere best he should be told of these You know not half the dangers that attend affronts.

Marg. I am the daughter of his father's friend,
Sir Walter's orphan ward.

I am not his servant maid, that I should wait
The opportunity of a gracious hearing,

Upon a life of wand'ring, which your thoughts

now,

Feeling the swellings of a lofty anger,

To your abused fancy, as 'tis likely,

Portray without its terrors, painting lies

R R

For then I'll bid this house and love farewell: You know not what it is to leave the roof that Farewell, sweet Devon; farewell, lukewarm

Of Sherwood, nigh which place they have ta'en a times past have deserved well of me) from the house now daily, and not-to-be-endured tribute of

In the town of Nottingham, and pass for forced love, and ill-dissembled reluctance of foreigners,

Of lively Lincoln green, that shall much grace When our idolatry slackens, or grows less,

In the wear, being glossy fresh, and worn but Of Admiration, being a decaying faculty,

More guests than one. (Love in a woman's a malady incident to young men; physicians heart call it caprice. Nothing else. He that slighted Being all in one.) For me, I am sure I have her knew her value: and 'tis odds, but, for thy room here sake, Margaret, John will yet go to his grave a bachelor. [A noise heard, as of one drunk and singing. Lovel. Here comes one, that will quickly dissipate these humours.

For more disturbers of my sleep than one.

Love shall have part, but love shall not have all.

Ambition, Pleasure, Vanity, all by turns,

Shall lie in my bed, and keep me fresh and
waking;

Yet Love not be excluded.-Foolish wench,
I could have loved her twenty years to come,
And still have kept my liking. But since 'tis so,
Why, fare thee well, old play-fellow! I'll try
To squeeze a tear for old acquaintance' sake.
I shall not grudge so much.-

To him enters LOVEL.

Lovel. Bless us, Woodvil! what is the matter? I protest, man, I thought you had been weeping. Wood. Nothing is the matter; only the wench has forced some water into my eyes, which will quickly disband.

Lovel. I cannot conceive you.
Wood. Margaret is flown.
Lovel. Upon what pretence?

Wood. Neglect on my part: which it seems she has had the wit to discover, maugre all my pains to conceal it.

Enter one drunk.

Drunken Man. Good-morrow to you, gentlemen. Mr. Lovel, I am your humble servant. Honest Jack Woodvil, I will get drunk with you to-morrow.

Wood. And why to-morrow, honest Mr. Freeman?

Drunken Man. I scent a traitor in that question. A beastly question. Is it not his Majesty's birthday the day of all days in the year, on which King Charles the Second was graciously pleased to be born. (Sings.) "Great pity 'tis such days as those should come but once a year."

Lovel. Drunk in a morning! foh! how he stinks!

Drunken Man. And why not drunk in a morning? canst tell, bully?

Wood. Because, being the sweet and tender infancy of the day, methinks, it should ill endure such early blightings.

Drunken Man. I grant you, 'tis in some sort the youth and tender nonage of the day. Youth Wood. To say the truth, my love for her has is bashful, and I give it a cup to encourage it.

Lovel. Then, you confess the charge?

of late stopped short on this side idolatry.

Lovel. As all good Christians' should, I think. Wood. I am sure, I could have loved her still within the limits of warrantable love.

Lovel. A kind of brotherly affection, I take it. Wood. We should have made excellent man and wife in time.

Lovel. A good old couple, when the snows fell, to crowd about a sea-coal fire, and talk over old matters.

Wood. While each should feel, what neither cared to acknowledge, that stories oft repeated may, at last, come to lose some of their grace by the repetition.

Lovel. Which both of you may yet live long enough to discover. For, take my word for it, Margaret is a bird that will come back to you without a lure.

Wood. Never, never, Lovel. Spite of my levity, with tears I confess it, she was a lady of most confirmed honour, of an unmatchable spirit, and determinate in all virtuous resolutions; not hasty to anticipate an affront, nor slow to feel, where just provocation was given.

Lovel. What made you neglect her, then?
Wood. Mere levity and youthfulness of blood,

(Sings.) "Ale that will make Grimalkin prate."-At noon I drink for thirst, at night for fellowship, but, above all, I love to usher in the bashful morning under the auspices of a freshening stoop of liquor. (Sings.) "Ale in a Saxon rumkin then, makes valour burgeon in tall men."-But, I crave pardon. I fear I keep that gentleman from serious thoughts. There be those that wait for me in the cellar.

Wood. Who are they?

Drunken Man. Gentlemen, my good friends, Cleveland, Delaval, and Truby. I know by this time they are all clamorous for me. [Exit singing.

Wood. This keeping of open house acquaints a man with strange companions.

Enter, at another door, Three calling for HARRY FREEMAN,
Harry Freeman, Harry Freeman.

He is not here. Let us go look for him.
Where is Freeman?
Where is Harry?

[Exeunt the Three, calling for
FREEMAN.

Wood. Did you ever see such gentry? (laughing.) These are they that fatten on ale and tobacco in a morning, drink burnt brandy at noon to promote digestion, and piously conclude with