University of Virginia Library

ACT THE FIRST.

Scene—A Servants' Apartment in Woodvil Hall. Servants drinking—Time, the morning.
A Song, by Daniel.
“When the King enjoys his own again.”

PETER.

A delicate song. Where didst learn it, fellow?

DANIEL.

Even there, where thou learnest thy oaths and thy
politics—at our master's table.—Where else should
a serving-man pick up his poor accomplishments?

MARTIN.

Well spoken, Daniel. O rare Daniel!—his oaths and his politics! excellent!

FRANCIS.

And where didst pick up thy knavery, Daniel?

PETER.

That came to him by inheritance. His family have
supplied the shire of Devon, time out of mind, with
good thieves and bad serving-men. All of his race
have come into the world without their conscience.

MARTIN.

Good thieves, and bad serving-men! Better and
better. I marvel what Daniel hath got to say in
reply.

DANIEL.

I marvel more when thou wilt say any thing to
the purpose, thou shallow serving-man, whose swiftest
conceit carries thee no higher than to apprehend with
difficulty the stale jests of us thy compeers. When
was't ever known to club thy own particular jest
among us?

MARTIN.

Most unkind Daniel, to speak such biting things of me!

FRANCIS.

See—if he hath not brought tears into the poor
fellow's eyes with the saltness of his rebuke.

DANIEL.

No offence, brother Martin—I meant none. 'Tis
true, Heaven gives gifts, and withholds them. It has
been pleased to bestow upon me a nimble invention
to the manufacture of a jest; and upon thee, Martin,
an indifferent bad capacity to understand my meaning.

MARTIN.

Is that all? I am content. Here's my hand.

FRANCIS.

Well, I like a little innocent mirth myself, but never could endure bawdry.

DANIEL.

Quot homines tot sententiæ.

MARTIN.

And what is that?

DANIEL.

'Tis Greek, and argues difference of opinion.

MARTIN.

I hope there is none between us.

DANIEL.

Here's to thee, brother Martin. (Drinks.)

MARTIN.

And to thee, Daniel. (Drinks.)

FRANCIS.

And to thee, Peter. (Drinks.)

PETER.

Thank you, Francis. And here's to thee. (Drinks.)

MARTIN.

I shall be fuddled anon.

DANIEL.

And drunkenness I hold to be a very despicable vice.

ALL.

O! a shocking vice. (They drink round.)

PETER.

In as much as it taketh away the understanding.

DANIEL.

And makes the eyes red.

PETER.

And the tongue to stammer.

DANIEL.

And to blab out secrets.

(During this conversation they continue drinking.)
PETER.

Some men do not know an enemy from a friend when they are drunk.

DANIEL.

Certainly sobriety is the health of the soul.

MARTIN.

Now I know I am going to be drunk.

DANIEL.

How canst tell, dry-bones?

MARTIN.

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

FRANCIS.

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.

FRANCIS.

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.

DANIEL.

For instance, no possibility of getting drunk before two in the afternoon.

PETER.

Every man his allowance of ale at breakfast—his quart!

ALL.

A quart!!

(In derision.)
DANIEL.

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.

MARTIN.

(Opening his eyes.)
Like beasts.

DANIEL.

To sleep, wag-tail!

FRANCIS.

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?

DANIEL.

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

MARTIN.

Now that is wilful.

FRANCIS.

But can any tell me the place of his concealment?

PETER.

That cannot I; but I have my conjectures.

DANIEL.

Two hundred pounds, as I hear, to the man that shall apprehend him.

FRANCIS.

Well, I have my suspicions.

PETER.

And so have I.

MARTIN.

And I can keep a secret.

FRANCIS.

(To Peter.)
Warwickshire you mean. (Aside.)

PETER.

Perhaps not.

FRANCIS.

Nearer perhaps.

PETER.

I say nothing.

DANIEL.

I hope there is none in this company would be mean enough to betray him.

ALL.

O Lord, surely not.

(They drink to Sir Walter's safety.)
FRANCIS.

I have often wondered how our master came to be
excepted by name in the late Act of Oblivion.

DANIEL.

Shall I tell the reason?

ALL.

Aye, do.

DANIEL.

'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.
SANDFORD.
You well-fed and unprofitable grooms,
Maintained for state, not use;
You lazy feasters at another's cost,
That eat like maggots into an estate,
And do as little work,
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?

MARTIN.
Whom does he call thin-face?

SANDFORD.
No prating, loon, but tell me who he 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,
Where your best wages was the world's repute,
That thus ye seek his life, by whom ye live?
Have you forgot too,
How often in old times
Your drunken mirths have stunn'd day's sober 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.

SANDFORD.
And quickly too, ye had better, for I see
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.
SANDFORD. MARGARET.
SANDFORD.
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.

MARGARET.
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.

SANDFORD.
Does my young master know of these affronts?

MARGARET.
I cannot tell. Perhaps he has not been told.
Perhaps he might have seen them if he would.
I have known him more quick-sighted. Let that pass.
All things seem chang'd, I think. I had a friend,
(I can't but weep to think him alter'd too,)
These things are best forgotten; but I knew
A man, a young man, young, and full of honor,
That would have picked a quarrel for a straw,
And fought it out to the extremity,
E'en with the dearest friend he had alive,
On but a bare surmise, a possibility,
That Margaret had suffer'd an affront.
Some are too tame, that were too splenetic once.

SANDFORD.
'Twere best he should be told of these affronts.

MARGARET.
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,
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,
His dear heart's confessor, a heart within that 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.

SANDFORD.
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,
Tainting his generous spirits with ambition.

MARGARET.
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
A man, her equal, to redress those wrongs,
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 fast'ning 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.

SANDFORD.
O lady, have a care
Of these indefinite and spleen-bred resolves.
You know not half the dangers that attend
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
And representments of fallacious liberty—
You know not what it is to leave the roof that shelters you.

MARGARET.
I have thought on every possible event,
The dangers and discouragements you speak of,
Even till my woman's heart hath ceas'd to fear them,
And cowardice grows enamour'd of rare accidents.
Nor am I so unfurnish'd, as you think,
Of practicable schemes.

SANDFORD.
Now God forbid; think twice of this, dear lady.

MARGARET.
I pray you spare me, Mr. Sandford,
And once for all believe, nothing can shake my purpose.

SANDFORD.
But what course have you thought on?

MARGARET.
To seek Sir Walter in the forest of Sherwood.
I have letters from young Simon,
Acquainting me with all the circumstances
Of their concealment, place, and manner of life,
And the merry hours they spend in the green haunts
Of Sherwood, nigh which place they have ta'en a house
In the town of Nottingham, and pass for foreigners,
Wearing the dress of Frenchmen.—
All which I have perus'd with so attent
And child-like longings, that to my doting ears
Two sounds now seem like one,
One meaning in two words, Sherwood and Liberty.
And, gentle Mr. Sandford,
'Tis you that must provide now
The means of my departure, which for safety
Must be in boy's apparel.

SANDFORD.
Since you will have it so
(My careful age trembles at all may happen)
I will engage to furnish you.
I have the keys of the wardrobe, and can fit you
With garments to your size.
I know a suit
Of lively Lincoln Green, that shall much grace you
In the wear, being glossy fresh, and worn but seldom.
Young Stephen Woodvil wore them, while he lived.
I have the keys of all this house and passages,
And ere day-break will rise and let you forth.
What things soe'er you have need of I can furnish you;
And will provide a horse and trusty guide,
To bear you on your way to Nottingham.

MARGARET.
That once this day and night were fairly past!
For then I'll bid this house and love farewell;
Farewell, sweet Devon; farewell, lukewarm John;
For with the morning's light will Margaret be gone.
Thanks, courteous Mr. Sandford.—

(Exeunt divers ways.)