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