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Both sanction'd and provok'd: a mark'd neg

lect,

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

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And cowardice grows enamour'd of rare acci

dents.

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.)

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 honorable 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.

6.8 MARGARET.”

Gone! gone! my girl? so hasty, Margaret!

And

never a kiss at parting? shallow loves,

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