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?

I cannot tell.

MARGARET.

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 you,

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 de-
lights grow,

Old custom has made pleasant.

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.

SIR WALTER.

(kneeling.)

Not at my feet, Margaret, not at my feet.

MARGARET.

Yes, till her suit is answer'd.

Name it.

SIR WALTER.

MARGARET.

A little boon, and yet so great a grace,

She fears to ask it.

SIR WALTER.

Some riddle, 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.-

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

There pride oft' gets the vantage hand of duty, There sweet humility withers.

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.

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 generalcontemplative for the narrow passion. I am in some sort a general lover.

MARGARET.

In the name of the boy God, who plays at hood-man-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,