And vow'd in sport to build a chapel in it,

There dwell

"Like bermit poor

"In pensive place obscure,

And tell your Ave Maries by the curls (Dropping like golden beads) of Margaret's hair; And make confession seven times a day

Of every thought that stray'd from love and Margaret ;

And I your saint the penance should appointBelieve me, sir, I will not now be laid

Aside, like an old fashion.

JOHN.

O lady, poor and abject are my thoughts,
My pride is cured, my hopes are under clouds,
I have no part in any good man's love,
In all earth's pleasures portion have I none,
I fade and wither in my own esteem,

This earth holds not alive so poor a thing as I

am.

I was not always thus.

Thou noble nature,

MARGARET.

(weeps.)

Which lion-like didst awe the inferior creatures,

Now trampled on by beasts of basest quality,

My dear heart's lord, life's pride, soul-honor'd

John!

Upon her knees (regard her poor request)
Your favourite, once-beloved Margaret, kneels.

JOHN.

What would'st thou, lady, ever-honor❜d Margaret?

MARGARET.

That John would think more nobly of himself, More worthily of high heaven;

And not for one misfortune, child of chance, No crime, but unforeseen, and sent to punish The less offence with image of the greater, Thereby to work the soul's humility,

(Which end hath happily not been frustrate quite,)

O not for one offence mistrust heaven's mercy, Nor quit thy hope of happy days to come→ John yet has many happy days to live;

To live and make atonement,

Excellent lady,

JOHN.

Whose suit hath drawn this softness from my

eyes,

Not the world's scorn, nor falling off of friends Could ever do. Will you go with me, Margaret?

SCENE-An inner Apartment.

John is discovered kneeling-Margaret stand

I cannot bear

ing over him.

JOHN. (rises.)

To see you waste that youth and excellent

beauty,

("Tis now the golden time of the day with you,) In tending such a broken wretch as I am.

MARGARET.

John will break Margaret's heart, if he speak so.
O sir, sir, sir, you are too melancholy,
And I must call it caprice. I am somewhat bold

Perhaps in this. But you are now my patient, (You know you gave me leave to call you so,) And I must chide these pestilent humours from you.

They are gone.—

JOHN.

Mark, love, how chearfully I speak !
I can smile too, and I almost begin

To understand what kind of creature Hope is.

MARGARET.

Now this is better, this mirth becomes you, John.

JOHN.

Yet tell me, if I over-act my mirth.

(Being but a novice, I may fall into that error,) That were a sad indecency, you know.

Nay, never fear.

MARGARET.

I will be mistress of your humours,

And you shall frowir or smile by the book.
And herein I shall be most peremptory,

Cry, this shews well, but that inclines to

"levity,

"This frown has too much of the Woodvil in it, "But that fine sunshine has redeem'd it quite."

JOHN.

How sweetly Margaret robs me of myself!

MARGARET.

To give you in your stead a better self!

Such as you were, when these eyes first beheld You mounted on your sprightly steed, White Margery,

Sir Rowland my father's gift,

And all my maidens gave my heart for lost.
I was a young thing then, being newly come
Home from my convent education, where

Seven years
I had wasted in the bosom of France:
Returning home true protestant, you call'd me
Your little heretic nun. How timid-bashful
Did John salute his love, being newly seen.
Sir Rowland term'd it a rare modesty,
And prais'd it in a youth.

JOHN.

Now Margaret weeps herself.

(A noise of bells heard.)

MARGARET.

Hark the bells, John.

JOHN.

Those are the church bells of St. Mary Ottery.