All things seem changed, 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 pick'd 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.

"T were 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,
Inquire 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 favorite 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 smiled or frown'd, John lived 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.

"T is 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 spirit 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 provoked: 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.

Portray without its terrors, painting lies
And representments of fallacious liberty-
You know not what it is to leave the roof that shal
ters you.

MARGARET.

I have thought on every possible event,

The dangers and discouragements you speak of,
Even till my woman's heart hath ceased 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 boose
In the town of Nottingham, and pass for foreigners,
Wearing the dress of Frenchmen.-

All which I have perused 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!
Farewell, sweet Devon; farewell, lukewarm John;
For then I'll bid this house and love farewell;
For with the morning's light will Margaret be gone.
Thanks, courteous Mr. Sandford.—

[Exeunt divers ways.

64

ACT II.

SCENE I.

An apartment in Woodvil Hall.

JOHN WOODVIL—alone.
(Reading Parts of a Letter.)

'WHEN Love grows cold, and indifference has usurp

d upon old esteem, it is no marvel if the world egin to account that dependence, which hitherto has een esteemed honorable shelter. The course I have aken (in leaving this house, not easily wrought thereinto), 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, ribute of forced love, and ill-dissembled reluctance of affection.

"MARGARET."

Gone! gone! my girl? so hasty, Margaret!
And never a kiss at parting? shallow loves,
And likings of a ten days' growth, use courtesies,
And show red eyes at parting. Who bids "farewell".
In the same tone he cries "God speed you, Sir?"
Or tells of joyful victories at sea,

Where he hath ventures? does not rather muffle
His organs to emit a leaden sound,

To suit the melancholy dull "farewell,"
Which they in Heaven not use?—

So peevish, Margaret?

But 't is the common error of your sex,
When our idolatry slackens, or grows less,
(As who of woman born can keep his faculty
Of Admiration, being a decaying faculty,
For ever strain'd to the pitch? or can at pleasure
Make it renewable, as some appetites are,
As, namely, Hunger, Thirst?—) this being the case,
They tax us with neglect, and love grown cold,
Coin plainings of the perfidy of men,
Which into maxims pass, and apophthegms
To be retail'd in ballads.-

I know them all.

They are jealous, when our larger hearts receive
More guests than one (Love in a woman's heart
Being all in one). For me, I am sure I have room here
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 't is so,
Why fare thee well, old playfellow! I'll try
To squeeze a tear for old acquaintance sake.
I shall not grudge so much.-

WOODVIL.

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

LOVEL.

As all good Christians' 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 honor, of an unmatchable spirit, and determinable 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 't is odds, but, for thy sake, Margaret, John will yet go to his grave a bachelor.

[A raise heard, as of one drunk and singing.

LOVEL.

Here comes one, that will quickly dissipate these humors.

(Enter one drunk.)

DRUNKEN MAN.

and villages.

The baffled factions in their houses skulk:
The commonwealthsman, 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 show of state, the point of place,
And trick of precedence, the ducks, and nods,
Which weak minds pay to rank. "T is 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,

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!

SCENE II. Sherwood Forest.

SIR WALTER WOODVIL SIMON WOODVIL (Disguised as Frenchmen.)

SIR WALTER.

How fares my boy, Simon, my youngest born!
Some grief untold weighs heavy at thy heart:
My hope my pride, young Woodvil, speak to me.
I know it by thy alter'd cheer of late.
Thinkest, thy brother plays thy father false?
It is a mad and thriftless prodigal,
Grown proud upon the favors of the court;
Court manners, and court fashions, he affects,
And in the heat and uncheck'd blood of youth,
Harbors 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!