He need not stick at, to maintain his friend's
honour, or his cause.
Lovel. I think many men would die for their expose his person so lightly?
friends.

Lovel. Can you assign any reason, why a gentleman of Sir Walter's known prudence should

John. Death! why 'tis nothing. We go to it for sport,

To gain a name, or purse, or please a sullen humour,

John. I believe, a certain fondness,

| A child-like cleaving to the land that gave him
birth,
Chains him like fate.
Lovel.

I have known some exiles thus

When one has worn his fortune's livery thread- To linger out the term of the law's indulgence, bare,

Or his spleen'd mistress frowns. Husbands will
venture on it,

To cure the hot fits and cold shakings of jealousy.
A friend, sir, must do more.

Lovel. Can he do more than die?

John. To serve a friend this he may do. Pray
mark me.

Having a law within (great spirits feel one)
He cannot, ought not, to be bound by any
Positive laws or ord'nances extern,

But may reject all these: by the law of friend-
ship

He may do so much, be they, indifferently,
Penn'd statutes, or the land's unwritten usages,
As public fame, civil compliances,
Misnamed honour, trust in matter of secrets,

All vows and promises, the feeble mind's
religion,

(Binding our morning knowledge to approve
What last night's ignorance spake ;)

The ties of blood withal, and prejudice of kin.
Sir, these weak terrors

I know what belongs

Must never shake me.
To a worthy friendship. Come, you shall have
my confidence.

Lovel. I hope you think me worthy.
John. You will smile to hear now-

Sir Walter never has been out of the island.
Lovel. You amaze me.

To the hazard of being known.

John. You may suppose sometimes
They use the neighb'ring Sherwood for their
sport,

Their exercise and freer recreation.-
I see you smile. Pray now, be careful.

Lovel. I am no babbler, sir; you need not fear

me.

John. But some men have been known to talk in their sleep,

And tell fine tales that way.

Lovel. I have heard so much. But, to say

truth, I mostly sleep alone.

John. Or drink, sir? do you never drink too freely?

Some men will drink, and tell you all their secrets.

Lovel. Why do you question me, who know my habits?

John. I think you are no sot,

No tavern-troubler, worshipper of the grape;
But all men drink sometimes,

And veriest saints at festivals relax,

The marriage of a friend, or a wife's birth-day.
Lovel. How much, sir, may a man with safety
drink?
[Smiling.

John. Sir, three half pints a day is reason-
able;

I care not if you never exceed that quantity.
Lovel. I shall observe it;

John. That same report of his escape to France On holidays two quarts.
Was a fine tale, forged by myself-

Ha ha!

John. Or stay; you keep no wench?
Lovel. Ha!

John. No painted mistress for your private
hours?

You keep no whore, sir?

What does he mean?

Lovel.
John. Who for a close embrace, a toy of sin,

John. From place to place, dwelling in no And amorous praising of your worship's breath, place long,

My brother Simon still hath borne him company, ('Tis a brave youth, I envy him all his virtues). Disguised in foreign garb, they pass for French

men,

Two Protestant exiles from the Limousin

In rosy junction of four melting lips,

Can kiss out secrets from you?

Lovel. How strange this passionate behaviour

shows in you!

Sure you think me some weak one.

John. Pray pardon me some fears.

Newly arrived. Their dwelling's now at Not You have now the pledge of a dear father's life.

tingham,

Where no soul knows them.

I am a son-would fain be thought a loving

one;

You may allow me some fears: do not despise Then, northward ho! such tricks as we shall

Ah! now I see it plain. He would be babbling.
No doubt a garrulous and hard-faced traitor—
But I'll not give you leave.

Lovel. What does this madman mean?

John. Come, sir; here is no subterfuge;

You must kill me, or I kill you.

[Draws.

play

Have not been seen, I think, in merry Sherwood,
Since the days of Robin Hood, that archer good.

ACT THE FOURTH.

SCENE.-An Apartment in Woodvil Hall.
JOHN WOODVIL. (Alone.)

A weight of wine lies heavy on my head,
The unconcocted follies of last night.
Now all those jovial fancies, and bright hopes,
Children of wine, go off like dreams.

This sick vertigo here

Preacheth of temperance, no sermon better.
These black thoughts, and dull melancholy,

Lovel (drawing). Then self-defence plead my That stick like burrs to the brain, will they ne'er

excuse.

He can bequeath: an old worn peruke,

A snuff-box with a picture of Prince Rupert,
A rusty sword he'll swear was used at Naseby,
Though it ne'er came within ten miles of the

place;

And, if he's very rich,

A cheap edition of the Icon Basilike,

Is mostly all the wealth he dies possest of.
You say few prayers, I fancy;—

So to it again. [They fight again. LOVEL is disarmed.
Lovel. You had best now take my life. I guess
you mean it.

John (musing). No :-Men will say I fear'd
him, if I kill'd him.

Live still, and be a traitor in thy wish,
But never act thy thought, being a coward.
That vengeance, which thy soul shall nightly

thirst for,

And this disgrace I've done you cry aloud for,
Still have the will without the power to execute.
So now I leave you,

Feeling a sweet security. No doubt

My secret shall remain a virgin for you!—

[Goes out smiling, in scorn.

leave me?

Some men are full of choler, when they are

drunk;

Some brawl of matter foreign to themselves;

And some, the most resolved fools of all,

Have told their dearest secrets in their cups.

SCENE.-The Forest.

SIR WALTER. SIMON. LOVEL. GRAY.

Lovel. Sir, we are sorry we cannot return your French salutation.

Gray. Nor otherwise consider this garb you trust to than as a poor disguise.

Lovel. Nor use much ceremony with a traitor. Gray. Therefore, without much induction of superfluous words, I attach you, Sir Walter Woodvil, of High Treason, in the King's name.

Lovel. And of taking part in the great Rebellion against our late lawful Sovereign, Charles the First.

Simon. John has betrayed us, father.

Lovel. Come, sir, you had best surrender fairly. We know you, sir.

Simon. Hang ye, villains, ye are two better known than trusted. I have seen those faces before. Are ye not two beggarly retainers, trencher-parasites, to John? I think ye rank above his footmen. A sort of bed and board worms-locusts that infest our house; a leprosy

Lovel (rising). For once you are mistaken in that long has hung upon its walls and princely

Lovel. Come, sir, though this show handsome in you, being his son, yet the law must have its

course.

Simon. And if I tell ye the law shall not have its course, cannot ye be content? Courage, father; shall such things as these apprehend a man?

Or bid "good night" to John. Who seeks to live
In amity with thee, must for thy sake
Abide the world's reproach. What then?
Shall Margaret join the clamours of the world
Against her friend? O undiscerning world,
That cannot from misfortune separate guilt,
No, not in thought! O never, never, John.
Prepared to share the fortunes of her friend
For better or for worse thy Margaret comes,
To pour into thy wounds a healing love,

Which of ye will venture upon me? Will you, Mr. Constable self-elect? or you, sir, with a pimple on your nose, got at Oxford by hard drinking, your only badge of loyalty? Gray. 'Tis a brave youth-I cannot strike at And wake the memory of an ancient friendship. him.

Simon. Father, why do you cover your face with your hands? Why do you fetch your breath so hard? See, villains, his heart is burst! O villains, he cannot speak. One of you run for some water; quickly, ye knaves; will ye have your throats cut? [They both slink off. How is it with you, Sir Walter? Look up, sir, the villains are gone. He hears me not, and this deep disgrace of treachery in his son hath touched him even to the death. O most distuned and distempered world, where sons talk their aged fathers into their graves! Garrulous and diseased world, and still empty, rotten and hollow talking world, where good men decay, states turn round in an endless mutability, and still for the worse; nothing is at a stay, nothing abides but vanity, chaotic vanity.-Brother, adieu !

There lies the parent stock which gave us life,
Which I will see consign'd with tears to earth.
Leave thou the solemn funeral rites to me,
Grief and a true remorse abide with thee.

SCENE. Another Part of the Forest.

And pardon me, thou spirit of Sir Walter,
Who, in compassion to the wretched living,
Have but few tears to waste upon the dead.

SANDFORD. MARGARET. (As from a Journey.) Sand. The violence of the sudden mischance hath so wrought in him, who by nature is allied to nothing less than a self-debasing humour of dejection, that I have never seen anything more changed and spirit-broken. He hath, with a peremptory resolution, dismissed the partners of his riots and late hours, denied his house and person to their most earnest solicitings, and will be seen by none. He keeps ever alone, and his grief (which is solitary) does not so much seem to possess and govern in him, as it is by him, with a wilfulness of most manifest affection, entertained and cherished.

Marg. How bears he up against the common rumour?

Sand. With a strange indifference, which who [Bears in the body. soever dives not into the niceness of his sorrow might mistake for obdurate and insensate. Yet are the wings of his pride for ever clipt; and yet a virtuous predominance of filial grief is so ever uppermost, that you may discover his thoughts less troubled with conjecturing what living opinions will say, and judge of his deeds, than absorbed and buried with the dead, whom his indiscretion made so.

Marg. (alone.) It was an error merely, and no
crime,

An unsuspecting openness in youth,
That from his lips the fatal secret drew,
Which should have slept like one of nature's
mysteries,

Unveil'd by any man.
Well, he is dead!

And what should Margaret do in the forest?
O ill-starr'd John !

O Woodvil, man enfeoff'd to despair!

Take thy farewell of peace.

O never look again to see good days,
Or close thy lids in comfortable nights,
Or ever think a happy thought again,
If what I have heard be true.-
Forsaken of the world must Woodvil live,
If he did tell these men.

No tongue must speak to him, no tongue of man
Salute him, when he wakes up in a morning;

Marg. I knew a greatness ever to be resident in him, to which the admiring eyes of men should look up even in the declining and bankrupt state of his pride. Fain would I see him, fain talk with him; but that a sense of respect, which is violated, when without deliberation we press into the society of the unhappy, checks and holds me back. How, think you, he would bear my presence?

Sand. As of an assured friend, whom in the forgetfulness of his fortunes he past by. See him you must; but not to-night. The newness of the sight shall move the bitterest compunetion and the truest remorse; but afterwards,

trust me, dear lady, the happiest effects of a As we put off our high thoughts and proud looks. returning peace, and a gracious comfort, to him, [Pauses, and observes the pictures. to you, and all of us.

Marg. I think he would not deny me. He hath ere this received farewell letters from his brother, who hath taken a resolution to estrange himself, for a time, from country, friends, and kindred, and to seek occupation for his sad thoughts in travelling in foreign places, where sights remote and extern to himself may draw from him kindly and not painful ruminations.

Sand. I was present at the receipt of the letter. The contents seemed to affect him, for a moment, with a more lively passion of grief than he has at any time outwardly shown. He wept with many tears (which I had not before noted in him), and appeared to be touched with the sense as of some unkindness; but the cause of their sad separation and divorce quickly recurring, he presently returned to his former inwardness of suffering.

Marg. The reproach of his brother's presence at this hour would have been a weight more than could be sustained by his already oppressed and sinking spirit.-Meditating upon these intricate and wide-spread sorrows, hath brought a heaviness upon me, as of sleep. How goes the night?

Sand. An hour past sun-set. You shall first refresh your limbs (tired with travel) with meats and some cordial wine, and then betake your no less wearied mind to repose.

Marg. A good rest to us all.

Sand. Thanks, lady.

ACT THE FIFTH.

JOHN WOODVIL (dressing).

John. How beautiful (handling his mourning) And comely do these mourning garments show! Sure Grief hath set his sacred impress here,

These pictures must be taken down :
The portraitures of our most ancient family
For nigh three hundred years! How have I
listen'd,

To hear Sir Walter, with an old man's pride,
Holding me in his arms, a prating boy,
And pointing to the pictures where they hung,
Repeat by course their worthy histories,
(As Hugh de Widville, Walter, first of the name,
And Anne the handsome, Stephen, and famous
John:

Telling me, I must be his famous John.)
But that was in old times.
Now, no more

Must I grow proud upon our house's pride.
I rather, I, by most unheard-of crimes,
Have backward tainted all their noble blood,
Rased out the memory of an ancient family,
And quite reversed the honours of our house.
Who now shall sit and tell us anecdotes ?
The secret history of his own times,
And fashions of the world when he was young:
How England slept out three-and-twenty years,
While Carr and Villiers ruled the baby king:
The costly fancies of the pedant's reign,
Balls, feastings, huntings, shows in allegory,
And Beauties of the court of James the First.

MARGARET enters.

John. Comes Margaret here to witness my disgrace?

O, lady, I have suffer'd loss,

And diminution of my honour's brightness.
You bring some images of old times, Margaret,
That should be now forgotten.

Marg. Old times should never be forgotten,
John.

I came to talk about them with my friend.
John. I did refuse you, Margaret, in my pride.
Marg. If John rejected Margaret in his pride,

To claim the world's respect! they note so (As who does not, being splenetic, refuse
feelingly

By outward types the serious man within.—
Alas! what part or portion can I claim
In all the decencies of virtuous sorrow,
Which other mourners use? as namely,
This black attire, abstraction from society,
Good thoughts, and frequent sighs, and seldom
smiles,

A cleaving sadness native to the brow,
All sweet condolements of like-grieved friends,
(That steal away the sense of loss almost)
Men's pity, and good offices

Which enemies themselves do for us then,
Putting their hostile disposition off,

Sometimes old playfellows,) the spleen being

gone,

The offence no longer lives.

O Woodvil, those were happy days,

When we two first began to love. When first,
Under pretence of visiting my father,
(Being then a stripling nigh upon my age,)
You came a wooing to his daughter, John.
Do you remember,

With what a coy reserve and seldom speech,
(Young maidens must be chary of their speech,)
I kept the honours of my maiden pride?

I was your favourite then.

John. O Margaret, Margaret!

Nor quit thy hope of happy days to come-
John yet has many happy days to live;
To live and make atonement.
John.

Excellent lady,

Whose suit hath drawn this softness from my

eyes,

These your submissions to my low estate,
And cleavings to the fates of sunken Woodvil,
Write bitter things 'gainst my unworthiness.
Thou perfect pattern of thy slander'd sex,
Whom miseries of mine could never alienate,
Nor change of fortune shake; whom injuries,
And slights (the worst of injuries) which moved
Thy nature to return scorn with like scorn,
Then when you left in virtuous pride this house,
Could not so separate, but now in this
My day of shame, when all the world forsake me, And pray for the peace of our unquiet minds?
You only visit me, love, and forgive me.

Marg. Dost yet remember the green arbour,
John,

In the south gardens of my father's house,
Where we have seen the summer sun go down,
Exchanging true love's vows without restraint?
And that old wood, you call'd your wilderness,
And vow'd in sport to build a chapel in it,
There dwell

"Like hermit poor

In pensive place obscure,"

And tell your Ave Maries by the curls

Not the world's scorn, nor failing off of friends,
Could ever do. Will you go with me, Margaret?
Marg. (rising.) Go whither, John
John.
Go in with me,

Marg. That I will, John.

SCENE. An inner Apartment.

[Exeunt.

JOHN is discovered kneeling.-MARGARET standing over him.
John (rises.) I cannot bear

To see you waste that youth and excellent beauty,
('Tis now the golden time of the day with you,)
In tending such a broken wretch as I am.

Marg. John will break Margaret's heart, if he speak so.

O sir, sir, sir, you are too melancholy,

And I must call it caprice. I am somewhat bold

(Dropping like golden beads) of Margaret's hair; Perhaps in this. But you are now my patient, (You know you gave me leave to call you so,)

And make confession seven times a day

Of every thought that stray'd from love and And I must chide these pestilent humours from Margaret;

And I your saint the penance should appoint-
Believe me, sir, I will not now be laid
Aside, like an old fashion.

John. O lady, poor and abject are my thoughts;
My pride is cured, my hopes are under clouds,
I have no part in any good man's love,
In all earth's pleasures portion have I none,
I fade and wither in my own esteem,
This earth holds not alive so poor a thing as I am.
I was not always thus.
[Weeps.
Marg.
Thou noble nature,
Which lion-like didst awe the inferior creatures,
Now trampled on by beasts of basest quality,
My dear heart's lord, life's pride, soul-honour'd

John !

Upon her knees (regard her poor request)
Your favourite, once beloved Margaret, kneels.

John. What would'st thou, lady, ever honour'd
Margaret?

Marg. That John would think more nobly of
himself,

More worthily of high Heaven;

And not for one misfortune, child of chance,
No crime, but unforeseen, and sent to punish
The less offence with image of the greater,
Thereby to work the soul's humility,

you.

I will be mistress of your humours,
And you shall frown or smile by the book.
And herein I shall be most peremptory,
Cry, "This shows well, but that inclines to
levity;

This frown has too much of the Woodvil in it,
But that fine sunshine has redeem'd it quite."
John. How sweetly Margaret robs me of my-
self!

Marg. To give you in your stead a better self!
Such as you were, when these eyes first beheld
You mounted on your sprightly steed, White
Margery,

Sir Rowland my father's gift,

And all my maidens gave my heart for lost.

I was a young thing then, being newly come

(Which end hath happily not been frustrate Home from my convent education, where quite,)

O not for one offence mistrust Heaven's mercy,

Seven years I had wasted in the bosom of France:
Returning home true protestant, you call'd me