SCENE I.-Sherwood Forest. ACT I. Enter several Courtiers, as lost. 1st Cour. Tis horrid dark! and this wood, believe, has neither end nor side. 4th Cour. You mean to get out at, for we have found one in, you see. at all so. Why we are all of us lost in the dark every day of our lives. Knaves keep us in the dark by their cunning, and fools by their ignoIrance. Divines lose us in dark mysteries; lawyers in dark cases; and statesmen in dark intrigues. Nay, the light of reason, which we so much boast of, what is it but a dark lanthorn, which just serves to prevent us from running our nose against a post, perhaps; but is no more able to lead us out of the dark mists of error and ignorance, in which we are lost, than an ignus fatuus would be to conduct us out of this wood. 2d Cour. I wish our good King Harry had kept nearer home to hunt; in my mind the pretty tame deer in London make much better sport than the wild ones in Sherwood forest. 3d Cour. I can't tell which way his majesty went, nor whether any body is with him or not; but let us keep together, pray. 4th Cour. Ay, ay, like true courtiers, take care of ourselves, whatever becomes of our ma ster. 2d Cour. Well, it's a terrible thing to be lost in the dark. 4th Cour. It is. And yet it's so common a case, that one would not think it should be 1st Cour. But, my lord, this is no time for preaching, methinks. And, for all your morals, daylight would be much preferable to this darkness, I believe. 3d Cour. Indeed would it. But come, let us go on; we shall find some house or other by and by. [Exeunt. 4th Cour. Come along. Enter the King. King. No, no; this can be no public road, that's certain: I am lost, quite lost indeed. Of what advantage is it now to be a king? Night shews me no respect: I cannot see better, nor walk so well as another man. What is a king? Is he not wiser than another man? Not without his counsellors, I plainly find. Is he not more powerful? I oft have been told so, indeed; but what now can my power command? Is he not, greater, and more magnificent? When seated on his throne, and surrounded with nobles and flatterers, perhaps he may think so; but when lost in a wood, alas! what is he but a common man? His wisdom knows not which is north, and which is south; his power a beggar's dog would bark at; and his greatness the beggar would not bow to. And yet, how oft are we puffed up with these false attributes? Well, in losing the monarch, I have found the man. [The report of a gun is heard. Hark! some villain sure is near! What were it best to do? Will my majesty protect me? No. Throw majesty aside, then, and let manhood do it. Enter the Miller. Mil. I believe, I hear the rogue. there? King. No rogue, I assure you. Mil. Little better, friend, I believe. fired that gun? King, Not I, indeed. Mil. You lie, I believe. account of himself than you have done, I promise you. King. I must submit to my own authority. [Aside.] Very well, sir, I am glad to hear the king has so good an officer; and since I find you have his authority, I will give you a better account of myself, if you will do me the favour to bear it. Mill. It's more than you deserve, I believe; but, let's hear what you can say for yourself. King. I have the honour to belong to the king, as well as you; and, perhaps, should be as unwilling to see any wrong done him. I came down with him to hunt in this forest, and, the chase leading us to-day a great way from home, I am benighted in this wood, and have lost my way. Mil. This does not sound well; if you have been a hunting, pray, where is your horse? King. I have tired my horse, so that he lay down under me, and I was obliged to leave him. Mil. If I thought I might believe this now.— King. Be that as it will, I speak truth now, I assure you; and, to convince you of it, if Who's you will attend me to Nottingham, if I am near it, or give me a night's lodging in your own house; here is something to pay you for Who your trouble, and if that is not sufficient, I will satisfy you in the morning to your utmost desire. King. Lie! lie! how strange it seems to me, to be talked to in this style. [Aside.] Upon my word, I don't. Mil. Come, come, sirrah, confess; you bave shot one of the king's deer, have not you? King. No, indeed; I owe the king more respect. I heard a gun go off, indeed, and was afraid some robbers might have been near. Mil. I'm not bound to believe this friend. Mil. Name! yes, name. Why you have a name, have not you? Where do you come from? What is your business here? King. These are questions I have not been used to, honest man. Mil. May be so; but they are questions no honest man would be afraid to answer, I think. So, if you can give me no better account of yourself, I shall make bold to take you along with me, if you please. King. With you! what authority have you to Mil. The king's authority, if I must give you an account, sir. I am John Cockle, the miller of Mansfield, one of his majesty's keepers in this forest of Sherwood; and I will let no suspected fellow pass this way, that cannot give a better Mil. Ay, now, I am convinced, you are a courtier; here is a little bribe for to-day, and a large promise for to-morrow, both in a breath; here, take it again, and take this along with it.John Cockle is no courtier; he can do what he ought without a bribe. King. Thou art a very extraordinary man, I must own, and I should be glad, methinks, to be farther acquainted with thee. Mil. Thee! and thou! prithee don't thee and thou me: I believe I am as good a man as yourself at least. King. Sir, I beg your pardon. Mil. Nay, I am not angry, friend; only, I don't love to be too familiar with any body, before I know whether they deserve it or not. King. You are in the right. But what am I to do? Mil. You may do what you please. You are twelve miles from Nottingham, and all the way through this thick wood; but, if you are resolved upon going thither to-night, I will put you in the road, and direct you, the best I can; or, if you will accept of such poor entertainment as a miller can give, you shall be welcome to stay all night, and, in the morning, I will go with you myself. King. And cannot you go with me to-night? Mil. I would not go with you to-night, if you | See who's there. O heavens! 'tis he! Alas! were the king. that ever I should be ashamed to see the man I love! King. Then I must go with you, I think. [Exeunt. SCENE II.-The Town of Mansfield. my DICK alone. Enter RICHARD, who stands looking on her at a distance, she weeping. Dick. Well, Peggy (but I suppose you're madam now, in that fine dress), you see, you have brought me back; is it to triumph in your falseWell, dear Mansfield, I am glad to see thy face hood? or, am I to receive the slighted leavings of again. But heart aches, methinks, for fear your fine lord? this should be only a trick of theirs, to get me into their power. Yet, the letter seems to be wrote with an air of sincerity, I confess; and the girl was never used to lie, till she kept a lord's company. Let me see, I'll read it once more. 'Dear Richard, I am at last (though much too late for me) convinced of the injury done to us both, by that base man, who made me think you false. He contrived these letters which I send you, to make me think you just upon the point of being married to another, a thought I could not bear with patience; so, aiming at revenge on you, consented to my own undoing. But, for your own sake, I beg you to return hither, for I have some hopes of being able to do you justice, which is the only comfort of your most distressed, but ever affectionate, 'PEGGY.' There can be no cheat in this, sure! The letters SCENE III.-A room. Enter PEGGY and PHŒBE. Phabe. Pray, madam, make yourself easy. Peg. Ah, Phœbe! she that has lost her virtue, has, with it, lost her ease, and all her happiness. Believing, cheated fool! to think him false. Phabe. Be patient, madam; I hope, you will shortly be revenged on that deceitful lord. Peg. I hope I shall, for that were just revenge! But, will revenge make me happy? Will it excuse my falsehood? Will it restore me to the heart of my much injured love! Ah, no! That blooming innocence he used to praise, and call the greatest beauty of our sex, is gone! I have no charm left, that might renew that flame, I took such pains to quench. [Knocking at the door. done you, I cannot look on you without conPeg. O Richard! after the injury I have fusion: But do not think so hardly of me: I stayed not to be slighted by him; for, the mohis sight; nor could he ever prevail to see me ment I discovered his vile plot on you, I fled since. Dick. Ah, Peggy! you were too hasty in believing; and much I fear, the vengeance aimed at me, had other charms to recommend it to you; such bravery as that [Pointing to her clothes.] I had not to bestow; but, if a tender, honest heart could please, you had it all; and, if I wished for more, 'twas for your sake. Peg. O Richard! when you consider the wicked stratagem he contrived, to make me think you base and deceitful, I hope you will, at least, pity my folly, and, in some measure, excuse my falsehood; that you will forgive me, I dare not hope. Dick. To be forced to fly from my friends and country, for a crime that I was innocent of, is an injury that I cannot easily forgive, to be sure: But, if you are less guilty of it than I thought, I shall be very glad; and, if your design be really, as you say, to clear me, and to expose the baseness of him that betrayed and ruined you, I will join with you, with all my heart. But how do you propose to do this? Peg. The king is now in this forest a-hunting, and our young lord is every day with him: Now, I think, if we could take some opportunity of throwing ourselves at his majesty's fect, and complaining of the injustice of one of his courtiers, it might, perhaps, have some effect upon him. Dick. If we were suffered to make him sensible of it, perhaps it night; but the complaints of such little folks as we, seldom reach the ears of majesty. Peg. We can but try. Dick. Well, if you will go with me to my father's, and stay there, till such an opportunity happens, I shall believe you in earnest, and will join with you in your design. Peg. I will do any thing to convince you of Peg. I'll be with you in less than an hour. SCENE IV.-The Mill. MARGERY and KATE knitting. Kate. O dear! I would not see a spirit for all the world! but I love dearly to hear stories of them. Well, and what then? Mar. And so at last, in a dismal hollow tone, it cried [4 knocking at the door frights them both; they scream out, and throw down their knitting. Mar. Lord bless us! What's that? Mar. Kate, go and see who's at the door. Kate. Now, don't speak as if you was afraid! Mar. No, I won't, if I can help it. Who's let me Kate. O gemini! it's like our Dick, I think: He's certainly dead! and it's his spirit. Mur. Heav'n forbid! I think in he himself. Open the door, Kate. Kate. Nay! do you. my heart, it's Mar. Conie, we'll both open it. Enter DICK. Dick. Dear mother! how do you do? thought you would not have let me in! Mar. Dear child! I'm overjoyed to see thee; but I was so frighted, I did not know what to do. Kate. Dear brother, I am glad to see you! how have you done this long while? Dick. Very well, Kate. But where's my ther? Dick. Very well, I thank you, father. King. A little more, and you had pushed me down. Mil. Faith, sir, you must excuse me; I was overjoyed to see my boy. He has been at London, and I have not seen him these four years. King. Well, I shall once in my life have the happiness of being treated as a common man; and of seeing human nature without disguise. [Aside. Mil. What has brought thee home so unexpected? Dick. You will know that presently. Mil. Of that, by-and-by, then. We have got the king down in the forest a hunting, this season; and this honest gentleman, who came down with his majesty from London, has been with them to-day, it seems, and has lost his way.-Come, Madge, see what thou can'st get for supper. Kill a couple of the best fowls: [Exit MAR.] and go you, Kate, and "draw a pitcher of ale [Exit KATE.]-We are famous, sir, at Mansfield, for good ale; and for honest fellows, that know how to drink it. King. Good ale will be acceptable at present, for I am very dry. But, pray, how came your son to leave you, and go to London? Mil. Why, that's a story which Dick, perhaps, won't like to have told. King. Then I don't desire to hear it. Enter KATE, with an earthen pitcher of ale, and a horn. Mil. So; now, do you go help your mother. I-Sir, my hearty service to you. fa King: Thank ye, sir. This plain sincerity and freedom, is a happiness unknown to kings. Mil. Come, sir. King. Richard, my service to you. Aside. Mil. Well, Dick, and how dost thou like London? Come, tell us what thou hast seen. Dick. Seen! I have seen the land of promisc. Mil. The land of promise' What dost thou mean? Dick. The court, father. Mil. Thou wilt never leave joking. Dick. To be serious, then, I have seen the disappointinent of my hopes and expectations; and that's more than one would wish to see. Mil. What! Would the great man, thou wast recommended to, do nothing at all for thee at last? Dick. Why, yes; he would promise me to the last. Mil. Zoons! Do the courtiers think their dependents can eat promises? Dick. No, no; they never trouble their heads to think whether we eat at all or not. I have now dangled after his lordship several years, tantalized with hopes and expectations; this Mil. No, no, Dick; instead of depending aupon lords' promises, depend upon the labour of thine own hands; expect nothing but what thou can'st earn, and then thou wilt not be disappointed. But come, I want a description of London; thou hast told us nothing thou hast seen yet. year promised one place, the next another, and the third, in sure and certain hope of disappointment. One falls, and it was promised before; another, and I am just half an hour too late; a third, and it stops the mouth of a creditor; a fourth, and it pays the hire of a flatterer; a fifth, and it bribes a vote: and, the sixth, I am promised still. But having thus slept away some years, I awoke from my dream my lord, I found, was so far from having it in bis power to get a place for me, that he had been all this while seeking after one for himself. : Mil. Poor Dick! And is plain honesty, then, | a recommendation to no place at court? Dick. It may recommend you to be a footman, perhaps, but nothing further; nothing further, indeed. If you look higher, you must furnish yourself with other qualifications: you must learn to say ay, or no; to run, or stand; to fetch, or carry, or leap over a stick, at the word of command. You must be master of the arts of flattery, insinuation, dissimulation, application, and-[Pointing to his palm.] -right application, too, if you hope to succeed. King. You don't consider I am a courtier, methinks. Dick. O! 'Tis a fine place! I have seen large houses with small hospitality; great men do little actions; and fine ladies do nothing at all. I have seen the bonest lawyers of Westminster-hall, and the virtuous inhabitants of Change-Alley; the politic madmen of coffec-houses, and the wise statesmen of Bedlam. I have seen merry tragedies, and sad comedies; devotion at an opera, and mirth at a sermon; I have seen fine clothes at St. James's, and long bills at Ludgate-hill. I have seen poor grandeur, and rich poverty; high honours, and low flattery; great pride, and no merit. In short, I have seen a fool with a title, a knave with a pension, and an honest man with a thread-bare coat. Pray, how do you like London? Mil. And is this the best description thou can'st give of it? Dick. Yes. King. Why, Richard, you are a satirist, I find. Dick. Not I, indeed; 'tis no concern of mine what you are. If, in general, my character of Dick. I love to speak truth, sir; if that hapthe court is true, 'tis not my fault if it's disa-pens to be satire, I can't help it. greeable to your worship. There are particular exceptions, I own, and I hope you may be one. King. Nay, I don't want to be flattered; so let that pass. Here's better success to you the next time you come to London ! Dick. I thank ye; but I don't design to see it again in haste. SCENE I-The Wood. Enter several Keepers. Mil. Well! If this is London, give me my country cottage; which, though it is not a great house, nor a fine house, is my own house; and I can shew a receipt for the building on't. But come, sir, our supper, I believe, is ready for us by this time; and to such as I have, you're welcome as a prince. King. I thank you. ACT II. 1st Keep. The report of a gun was somewhere this way, I'm sure. 2d Keep. Yes; but I can never believe that any body would come a deer stealing so dark a night as this. 3d Keep. Where did the deer harbour today? 4th Keep. There was a herd lay upon Hamilton-hill; another, just by Robin Hood's chair; and a third here, in Mansfield wood. 1st Keep. Ay; those they have been amongst ! 2d Keep. But we shall never be able to find them to-night, 'tis so dark. 3d Keep. No, no; !ct's go back again. [Exeunt. 1st Keep. Zoons! You're afraid of a broken. head, I suppose, if we should find them; and so had rather slink back again. Hark! stand close; I hear them coming this way. Enter the Courtiers. 1st Cour. Did not you hear somebody just now? Faith, I begin to be afraid we shall meet with some misfortune to-night. 2d Cour. Why, if any body should take what we have got, we have made a fine business of it. Sd Cour. Let them take it, if they will: I am so tired, I shall make but small resistance. [The Keepers rush upon them. 2d Keep. Ay; rogues, rascals, and villains! You have got it, have you? 2d Cour. Indoed we've got but very little; |