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.

Who are they?

WOODVIL.

DRUNKEN MAN.

Gentlemen, 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 sculk:
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 alter'd 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.