University of Virginia Library

ACT THE SECOND.

Scene—An Apartment in Woodvil Hall.
John Woodvil
—alone.
(Reading Parts of a Letter.)

“When Love grows cold, and indifference has
usurped upon old Esteem, it is no marvel if the world
begin to account that dependence, which hitherto has
been esteemed honourable shelter. The course I
have taken (in leaving this house, not easily wrought
thereunto,) seemed to me best for the once-for-all
releasing of yourself (who in times past have deserved
well of me) from the now daily, and not-to-be-endured,
tribute of forced love, and ill-dissembled reluctance of
affection.

“MARGARET.”

To him enters Lovel.
LOVEL.

Bless us, Woodvil! what is the matter? I protest,
man, I thought you had been weeping.

WOODVIL.

Nothing is the matter, only the wench has forced
some water into my eyes, which will quickly disband.

LOVEL.

I cannot conceive you.

WOODVIL.

Margaret is flown.

LOVEL.

Upon what pretence?

WOODVIL.

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

LOVEL.

Then you confess the charge?

WOODVIL.

To say the truth, my love for her has of late stopt short on this side idolatry.

LOVEL.

As all good Christian's should, I think.

WOODVIL.

I am sure, I could have loved her still within the limits of warrantable love.

LOVEL.

A kind of brotherly affection, I take it.

WOODVIL.

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.

WOODVIL.

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.

WOODVIL.

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?

WOODVIL.

Mere levity and youthfulness of blood, a malady
incident to young men, physicians call it caprice.
Nothing else. He, that slighted her, knew her
value: and 'tis odds, but, for thy 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.

(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.

WOODVIL.

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 birth-day? 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?

WOODVIL.

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 is bashful, and I give it a
cup to encourage it. (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.

WOODVIL.

Who are they?

DRUNKEN MAN.

Gentleman, my good friends, Cleveland, Delaval,
and Truby. I know by this time they are all clamorous
for me.

(Exit singing.)
WOODVIL.

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.)

WOODVIL.

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 quart bumpers after supper, to
prove their loyalty.

LOVEL.

Come, shall we adjourn to the Tennis Court?

WOODVIL.

No, you shall go with me into the gallery, where I
will shew you the Vandyke I have purchased. “The
late King taking leave of his children.”

LOVEL.

I will but adjust my dress, and attend you.

(Exit Lovel.)
JOHN WOODVIL,
alone.
Now Universal England getteth drunk
For joy that Charles, her monarch, is restored:
And she, that sometime wore a saintly mask,
The stale-grown vizor from her face doth pluck,
And weareth now a suit of morris bells,
With which she jingling goes through all her towns and villages.
The baffled factions in their houses skulk;
The common-wealthsman, and state machinist,
The cropt fanatic, and fifth-monarchy-man,
Who heareth of these visionaries now?
They and their dreams have ended. Fools do sing,
Where good men yield God thanks; but politic spirits,
Who live by observation, note these changes
Of the popular mind, and thereby serve their ends.
Then why not I? What's Charles to me, or Oliver,
But as my own advancement hangs on one of them?
I to myself am chief.—I know,
Some shallow mouths cry out, that I am smit
With the gauds and shew of state, the point of place,
And trick of precedence, the ducks, and nods,
Which weak minds pay to rank. 'Tis not to sit
In place of worship at the royal masques,
Their pastimes, plays, and Whitehall banquetings,
For none of these,
Nor yet to be seen whispering with some great one,
Do I affect the favours of the court.
I would be great, for greatness hath great power,
And that's the fruit I reach at.—
Great spirits ask great play-room. Who could sit,
With these prophetic swellings in my breast,
That prick and goad me on, and never cease,
To the fortunes something tells me I was born to?
Who, with such monitors within to stir him,
Would sit him down, with lazy arms across,
A unit, a thing without a name in the state,
A something to be govern'd not to govern,
A fishing, hawking, hunting, country gentleman?
(Exit.)

Scene—Sherwood Forest.
SIR WALTER WOODVIL. SIMON WOODVIL. Disguised as Frenchmen.
SIR WALTER.
How fares my boy, Simon, my youngest born,
My hope, my pride, young Woodvil, speak to me?
Some grief untold weighs heavy at thy heart:
I know it by thy altered cheer of late.
Thinkest, thy brother plays thy father false?
It is a mad and thriftless prodigal,
Grown proud upon the favours of the court;
Court manners, and court fashions, he affects,
And in the heat and uncheck'd blood of youth,
Harbours a company of riotous men,
All hot, and young, court-seekers, like himself,
Most skilful to devour a patrimony;
And these have eat into my old estates,
And these have drain'd thy father's cellars dry;
But these so common faults of youth not named,
(Things which themselves outgrow, left to themselves,)
I know no quality that stains his honor.
My life upon his faith and noble mind,
Son John could never play thy father false.

SIMON.
I never thought but nobly of my brother,
Touching his honor and fidelity.
Still I could wish him charier of his person,
And of his time more frugal, than to spend
In riotous living, graceless society,
And mirth unpalatable, hours better employ'd
(With those persuasive graces nature lent him)
In fervent pleadings for a father's life.

SIR WALTER.
I would not owe my life to a jealous court,
Whose shallow policy I know it is,
On some reluctant acts of prudent mercy,
(Not voluntary, but extorted by the times,
In the first tremblings of new-fixed power,
And recollection smarting from old wounds,)
On these to build a spurious popularity.
Unknowing what free grace or mercy mean,
They fear to punish, therefore do they pardon.
For this cause have I oft forbid my son,
By letters, overtures, open solicitings,
Or closet-tamperings, by gold or fee,
To beg or bargain with the court for my life.

SIMON.
And John has ta'en you, father, at your word,
True to the letter of his paternal charge.

SIR WALTER.
Well, my good cause, and my good conscience, boy,
Shall be for sons to me, if John prove false.
Men die but once, and the opportunity
Of a noble death is not an every-day fortune:
It is a gift which noble spirits pray for.

SIMON.
I would not wrong my brother by surmise;
I know him generous, full of gentle qualities,
Incapable of base compliances,
No prodigal in his nature, but affecting
This shew of bravery for ambitious ends.
He drinks, for 'tis the humour of the court,
And drink may one day wrest the secret from him,
And pluck you from your hiding place in the sequel.

SIR WALTER.
Fair death shall be my doom, and foul life his.
Till when, we'll live as free in this green forest
As yonder deer, who roam unfearing treason;
Who seem the Aborigines of this place,
Or Sherwood theirs by tenure.

SIMON.
'Tis said, that Robert Earl of Huntingdon,
Men call'd him Robin Hood, an outlaw bold,
With a merry crew of hunters here did haunt,
Not sparing the king's venison. May one believe
The antique tale?

SIR WALTER.
There is much likelihood,
Such bandits did in England erst abound,
When polity was young. I have read of the pranks
Of that mad archer, and of the tax he levied
On travellers, whatever their degree,
Baron, or knight, whoever pass'd these woods,
Layman, or priest, not sparing the bishop's mitre
For spiritual regards; nay, once, 'tis said,
He robb'd the king himself.

SIMON.
A perilous man. (smiling.)


SIR WALTER.
How quietly we live here,
Unread in the world's business,
And take no note of all its slippery changes.
'Twere best we make a world among ourselves,
A little world,
Without the ills and falsehoods of the greater;
We two being all the inhabitants of ours,
And kings and subjects both in one.

SIMON.
Only the dangerous errors, fond conceits,
Which make the business of that greater world,
Must have no place in ours:
As, namely, riches, honors, birth, place, courtesy,
Good fame and bad, rumours and popular noises,
Books, creeds, opinions, prejudices national,
Humours particular,
Soul-killing lies, and truths that work small good,
Feuds, factions, enmities, relationships,
Loves, hatreds, sympathies, antipathies,
And all the intricate stuff quarrels are made of.

(Margaret enters in boy's apparel.)
SIR WALTER.
What pretty boy have we here?

MARGARET.
Bon jour, messieurs. Ye have handsome English faces,
I should have ta'en you else for other two,
I came to seek in the forest.

SIR WALTER.
Who are they?

MARGARET.
A gallant brace of Frenchmen, curled monsieurs,
That, men say, haunt these woods, affecting privacy,
More than the manner of their countrymen.

SIMON.
We have here a wonder.
The face is Margaret's face.

SIR WALTER.
The face is Margaret's, but the dress the same
My Stephen sometime wore.
(To Margaret.)
Suppose us them; whom do men say we are?
Or know you what you seek?

MARGARET.
A worthy pair of exiles,
Two whom the politics of state revenge,
In final issue of long civil broils,
Have houseless driven from your native France,
To wander idle in these English woods,
Where now ye live; most part
Thinking on home, and all the joys of France,
Where grows the purple vine.

SIR WALTER.
These woods, young stranger,
And grassy pastures, which the slim deer loves,
Are they less beauteous than the land of France,
Where grows the purple vine?

MARGARET.
I cannot tell.
To an indifferent eye both shew alike.
'Tis not the scene,
But all familiar objects in the scene,
Which now ye miss, that constitute a difference.
Ye had a country, exiles, ye have none now;
Friends had ye, and much wealth, ye now have nothing;
Our manners, laws, our customs, all are foreign to yon,
I know ye loathe them, cannot learn them readily;
And there is reason, exiles, ye should love
Our English earth less than your land of France,
Where grows the purple vine; where all delights grow
Old custom has made pleasant.

SIR WALTER.
You, that are read
So deeply in our story, what are you?

MARGARET.
A bare adventurer; in brief a woman.
That put strange garments on, and came thus far
To seek an ancient friend:
And having spent her stock of idle words,
And feeling some tears coming,
Hastes now to clasp Sir Walter Woodvil's knees,
And beg a boon for Margaret, his poor ward.

(kneeling.)
SIR WALTER.
Not at my feet, Margaret, not at my feet.

MARGARET.
Yes, till her suit is answered.

SIR WALTER.
Name it.

MARGARET.
A little boon, and yet so great a grace,
She fears to ask it.

SIR WALTER.
Some riddle, Margaret?

MARGARET.
No riddle, but a plain request.

SIR WALTER.
Name it.

MARGARET.
Free liberty of Sherwood,
And leave to take her lot with you in the forest.

SIR WALTER.
A scant petition, Margaret, but take it,
Seal'd with an old man's tears.—
Rise, daughter of Sir Rowland.
(Addresses them both.)
O you most worthy,
You constant followers of a man proscribed,
Following poor misery in the throat of danger;
Fast servitors to craz'd and penniless poverty,
Serving poor poverty without hope of gain;
Kind children of a sire unfortunate;
Green clinging tendrils round a trunk decay'd,
Which needs must bring on you timeless decay;
Fair living forms to a dead carcase join'd;—
What shall I say?
Better the dead were gather'd to the dead,
Than death and life in disproportion meet.—
Go, seek your fortunes, children.—

SIMON.
Why, whither should we go?

SIR WALTER.
You to the Court, where now your brother John
Commits a rape on Fortune.

SIMON.
Luck to John!
A light heel'd strumpet, when the sport is done.

SIR WALTER.
You to the sweet society of your equals,
Where the world's fashion smiles on youth and beauty.

MARGARET.
Where young men's flatteries cozen young maids' beauty.
There pride oft gets the vantage hand of duty,
There sweet humility withers.

SIMON.
Mistress Margaret,
How fared my brother John, when you left Devon?

MARGARET.
John was well, Sir.

SIMON.
'Tis now nine months almost,
Since I saw home. What new friends has John made?
Or keeps he his first love?—I did suspect
Some foul disloyalty. Now do I know,
John has prov'd false to her, for Margaret weeps.
It is a scurvy brother.

SIR WALTER.
Fie upon it.
All men are false, I think. The date of love
Is out, expired, its stories all grown stale,
O'erpast, forgotten, like an antique tale
Of Hero and Leander.

SIMON.

I have known some men that are too general-contemplative
for the narrow passion. I am in some
sort a general lover.

MARGARET.

In the name of the boy god, who plays at hoodman-blind
with the Muses, and cares not whom he
catches: what is it you love?

SIMON.
Simply, all things that live,
From the crook'd worm to man's imperial form,
And God-resembling likeness. The poor fly,
That makes short holyday in the sun beam,
And dies by some child's hand. The feeble bird
With little wings, yet greatly venturous
In the upper sky. The fish in th' other element,
That knows no touch of eloquence. What else?
Yon tall and elegant stag,
Who paints a dancing shadow of his horns
In the water, where he drinks.

MARGARET.

I myself love all these things, yet so as with a
difference:—for example, some animals better than
others, some men rather than other men; the nightingale
before the cuckoo, the swift and graceful
palfrey before the slow and asinine mule. Your
humour goes to confound all qualities.
What sports do you use in the forest?—

SIMON.
Not many; some few, as thus:—
To see the sun to bed, and to arise,
Like some hot amourist with glowing eyes,
Bursting the lazy bands of sleep that bound him,
With all his fires and travelling glories round him.
Sometimes the moon on soft night clouds to rest,
Like beauty nestling in a young man's breast,
And all the winking stars, her handmaids, keep
Admiring silence, while those lovers sleep.
Sometimes outstretcht, in very idleness,
Nought doing, saying little, thinking less,
To view the leaves, thin dancers upon air,
Go eddying round; and small birds, how they fare,
When mother Autumn fills their beaks with corn,
Filch'd from the careless Amalthea's horn;
And how the woods berries and worms provide
Without their pains, when earth has nought beside
To answer their small wants.
To view the graceful deer come tripping by,
Then stop, and gaze, then turn, they know not why,
Like bashful younkers in society.
To mark the structure of a plant or tree,
And all fair things of earth, how fair they be.

MARGARET
(smiling).
And, afterwards them paint in simile.

SIR WALTER.

Mistress Margaret will have need of some refreshment.
Please you, we have some poor viands within.

MARGARET.
Indeed I stand in need of them.

SIR WALTER.
Under the shade of a thick-spreading tree,
Upon the grass, no better carpeting,
We'll eat our noon-tide meal; and, dinner done,
One of us shall repair to Nottingham,
To seek some safe night-lodging in the town,
Where you may sleep, while here with us you dwell,
By day, in the forest, expecting better times,
And gentler habitations, noble Margaret.

SIMON.
Allons, young Frenchman—

MARGARET.
Allons, Sir Englishman. The time has been,
I've studied love-lays in the English tongue,
And been enamour'd of rare poesy:
Which now I must unlearn. Henceforth,
Sweet mother-tongue, old English speech, adieu;
For Margaret has got new name and language new.

[Exeunt.