Both sanction'd and provok'd: a mark'd neg lect, And strangeness fast'ning bitter on his love, 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. Upon a life of wand'ring, which your thoughts now, Feeling the swellings of a lofty anger, 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 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, 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, |