ON WAWD

(Of the East India House)

What Wawd knows, God knows; But God knows what Wawd knows.



* * * * *



SIX EPITAPHS ON ENSIGN PEACOCK

(1799)

MARMOR LOQUITUR

He lies a Volunteer so fine, Who died of a decline, As you or I, may do one day; Reader, think of this, I pray; And I humbly hope you'll drop a tear For my poor Royal Volunteer. He was as brave as brave could be, Nobody was so brave as he; He would have died in Honor's bed, Only he died at home instead. Well may the Royal Regiment swear, They never had such a Volunteer. But whatsoever they may say, Death is a man that will have his way: Tho' he was but an ensign in this world of pain; In the next we hope he'll be a captain. And without meaning to make any reflection on his mentals, He begg'd to be buried in regimentals.

ON TIMOTHY WAGSTAFF

Here lies the body of Timothy Wagstaff, Who was once as tall and as straight as a flagstaff; But now that he's gone to another world, His staff is broken and his flag is furled.

ON CAPTAIN STURMS

Here lieth the body of Captain Sturms, Once "food for powder," now for worms, At the battle of Meida he lost his legs, And stumped about on wooden pegs. Naught cares he now for such worthless things, He was borne to Heaven on angels' wings.

ON MARGARET DIX

(Born on February 29)

Ci git the remains of Margaret Dix, Who was young in old age I ween, Though Envy with Malice cried "seventy-six," The Graces declared her "nineteen."

ON ONESIMUS DRAKE

To the memory of Dr. Onesimus Drake, Who forced good people his drugs to take— No wonder his patients were oft on the rack For this "duck of a man" was a terrible quack.

ON MATTHEW DAY

Beneath this slab lies Matthew Day, If his body had not been snatched away To be by Science dissected; Should it have gone, one thing is clear: His soul the last trump is sure to hear, And thus be resurrected.



* * * * *



TIME AND ETERNITY

Where the soul drinks of misery's power, Each moment seems a lengthened hour; But when bright joy illumes the mind, Time passes as the fleetest wind.— How to a wicked soul must be Whole ages of eternity?



FROM THE LATIN

As swallows shrink before the wintry blast, And gladly seek a more congenial soil, So flatterers halt when fortune's lure is past, And basely court some richer lordling's smile.



SATAN IN SEARCH OF A WIFE

_With the Whole Process of his Courtship and Marriage, and who Danced at the Wedding

By an Eye Witness_

(1831)

DEDICATION

To delicate bosoms, that have sighed over the Loves of the Angels, this Poem is with tenderest regard consecrated. It can be no offence to you, dear Ladies, that the author has endeavoured to extend the dominion of your darling passion; to shew Love triumphant in places, to which his advent has been never yet suspected. If one Cecilia drew an Angel down, another may have leave to attract a Spirit upwards; which, I am sure, was the most desperate adventure of the two. Wonder not at the inferior condition of the agent; for, if King Cophetua wooed a Beggar Maid, a greater king need not scorn to confess the attractions of a fair Tailor's daughter. The more disproportionate the rank, the more signal is the glory of your sex. Like that of Hecate, a triple empire is now confessed your own. Nor Heaven, nor Earth, nor deepest tracts of Erebus, as Milton hath it, have power to resist your sway. I congratulate your last victory. You have fairly made an Honest Man of the Old One; and, if your conquest is late, the success must be salutary. The new Benedict has employment enough on his hands to desist from dabbling with the affairs of poor mortals; he may fairly leave human nature to herself; and we may sleep for one while at least secure from the attacks of this hitherto restless Old Bachelor. It remains to be seen, whether the world will be much benefited by the change in his condition.



PART THE FIRST

I

The Devil was sick and queasy of late, And his sleep and his appetite fail'd him; His ears they hung down, and his tail it was clapp'd Between his poor hoofs, like a dog that's been rapp'd— None knew what the devil ail'd him.

II

He tumbled and toss'd on his mattress o' nights, That was fit for a fiend's disportal; For 'twas made of the finest of thistles and thorn, Which Alecto herself had gather'd in scorn Of the best down beds that are mortal.

III

His giantly chest in earthquakes heaved, With groanings corresponding; And mincing and few were the words he spoke, While a sigh, like some delicate whirlwind, broke From a heart that seem'd desponding.

IV

Now the Devil an Old Wife had for his Dam, I think none e'er was older: Her years—old Parr's were nothing to them; And a chicken to her was Methusalem, You'd say, could you behold her.

V

She remember'd Chaos a little child, Strumming upon hand organs; At the birth of Old Night a gossip she sat, The ancientest there, and was godmother at The christening of the Gorgons.

VI

Her bones peep'd through a rhinoceros' skin, Like a mummy's through its cerement; But she had a mother's heart, and guess'd What pinch'd her son; whom she thus address'd In terms that bespoke endearment.

VII

"What ails my Nicky, my darling Imp, My Lucifer bright, my Beelze? My Pig, my Pug-with-a-curly-tail, You are not well. Can a mother fail To see that which all Hell see?"

VIII

"O Mother dear, I am dying, I fear; Prepare the yew, and the willow, And the cypress black: for I get no ease By day or by night for the cursed fleas, That skip about my pillow."

IX

"Your pillow is clean, and your pillow-beer, For I wash'd 'em in Styx last night, son, And your blankets both, and dried them upon The brimstony banks of Acheron— It is not the fleas that bite, son."

X

"O I perish of cold these bitter sharp nights, The damp like an ague ferrets; The ice and the frost hath shot into the bone; And I care not greatly to sleep alone O! nights—for the fear of Spirits."

XI

"The weather is warm, my own sweet boy, And the nights are close and stifling; And for fearing of Spirits, you cowardly Elf— Have you quite forgot you're a Spirit yourself? Come, come, I see you are trifling.

XII

"I wish my Nicky is not in love"— "O mother, you have nick't it"— And he turn'd his head aside with a blush— Not red hot pokers, or crimson plush, Could half so deep have prick'd it.

XIII

"These twenty thousand good years or more," Quoth he, "on this burning shingle I have led a lonesome Bachelor's life, Nor known the comfort of babe or wife— 'Tis a long—time to live single."

XIV

Quoth she, "If a wife is all you want, I shall quickly dance at your wedding. I am dry nurse, you know, to the Female Ghosts "— And she call'd up her charge, and they came in hosts To do the old Beldam's bidding:

XV

All who in their lives had been servants of sin— Adulteress, Wench, Virago— And Murd'resses old that had pointed the knife Against a husband's or father's life, Each one a She Iago.

XVI

First Jezebel came—no need of paint, Or dressing, to make her charming; For the blood of the old prophetical race Had heighten'd the natural flush of her face To a pitch 'bove rouge or carmine.

XVII

Semiramis there low tendered herself, With all Babel for a dowry: With Helen, the flower and the bane of Greece— And bloody Medea next offer'd her fleece, That was of Hell the Houri.

XVIII

Clytemnestra, with Joan of Naples, put in; Cleopatra, by Anthony quicken'd; Jocasta, that married where she should not, Came hand in hand with the Daughters of Lot; Till the Devil was fairly sicken'd.

XIX

For the Devil himself, a dev'l as he is, Disapproves unequal matches. "O Mother," he cried, "dispatch them hence! No Spirit—I speak it without offence— Shall have me in her hatches."

XX

With a wave of her wand they all were gone! And now came out the slaughter: "'Tis none of these that can serve my turn; For a wife of flesh and blood I burn— I'm in love with a Taylor's Daughter.

XXI

"'Tis she must heal the wounds that she made, 'Tis she must be my physician. O parent mild, stand not my foe"— For his mother had whisper'd something low About "matching beneath his condition."—

XXII

"And then we must get paternal consent, Or an unblest match may vex ye"— "Her father is dead; I fetched him away. In the midst of his goose, last Michaelmas day— He died of an apoplexy.

XXIII

"His daughter is fair, and an only heir— With her I long to tether— He has left her his hell, and all that he had; The estates are contiguous, and I shall be mad, 'Till we lay our two Hells together."

XXIV

"But how do you know the fair maid's mind?"— Quoth he, "Her loss was but recent; And I could not speak my mind you know, Just when I was fetching her father below— It would have been hardly decent.

XXV

"But a leer from her eye, where Cupids lie, Of love gave proof apparent; And, from something she dropp'd, I shrewdly ween'd, In her heart she judged, that a living Fiend Was better than a dead Parent.

XXVI

"But the time is short; and suitors may come, While I stand here reporting; Then make your son a bit of a Beau, And give me your blessing, before I go To the other world a courting."

XXVII

"But what will you do with your horns, my son? And that tail—fair maids will mock it—" "My tail I will dock—and as for the horn, Like husbands above I think no scorn To carry it in my pocket."

XXVIII

"But what will you do with your feet, my son?" "Here are stockings fairly woven: My hoofs I will hide in silken hose; And cinnamon-sweet are my pettitoes— Because, you know, they are cloven."

XXIX

"Then take a blessing, my darling Son," Quoth she, and kiss'd him civil— Then his neckcloth she tied; and when he was drest From top to toe in his Sunday's best, He appear'd a comely devil.

XXX

So his leave he took:—but how he fared In his courtship—barring failures— In a Second Part you shall read it soon, In a bran new song, to be sung to the tune Of the "Devil among the Tailors."



* * * * *



THE SECOND PART

Containing the Courtship, and the Wedding

I

Who is She that by night from her balcony looks On a garden, where cabbage is springing? 'Tis the Tailor's fair Lass, that we told of above; She muses by moonlight on her True Love; So sharp is Cupid's stinging.

II

She has caught a glimpse of the Prince of the Air In his Luciferian splendour, And away with her coyness and maiden reserve!— For none but the Devil her turn will serve, Her sorrows else will end her.

III

She saw when he fetch'd her father away, And the sight no whit did shake her; For the Devil may sure with his own make free— And "it saves besides," quoth merrily she, "The expence of an Undertaker.—

IV

"Then come, my Satan, my darling Sin, Return to my arms, my Hell Beau; My Prince of Darkness, my crow-black Dove"— And she scarce had spoke, when her own True Love Was kneeling at her elbow!

V

But she wist not at first that this was He, That had raised such a boiling passion; For his old costume he had laid aside, And was come to court a mortal bride In a coat-and-waistcoat fashion.

VI

She miss'd his large horns, and she miss'd his fair tail, That had hung so retrospective; And his raven plumes, and some other marks Regarding his feet, that had left their sparks In a mind but too susceptive:

VII

And she held in scorn that a mortal born Should the Prince of Spirits rival, To clamber at midnight her garden fence— For she knew not else by what pretence To account for his arrival.

VIII

"What thief art thou," quoth she, "in the dark That stumblest here presumptuous? Some Irish Adventurer I take you to be— A Foreigner, from your garb I see, Which besides is not over sumptuous."

IX

Then Satan, awhile dissembling his rank, A piece of amorous fun tries: Quoth he, "I'm a Netherlander born; Fair Virgin, receive not my suit with scorn; I'm a Prince in the Low Countries—

X

"Though I travel incog. From the Land of Fog And Mist I am come to proffer My crown and my sceptre to lay at your feet; It is not every day in the week you may meet, Fair Maid, with a Prince's offer."

XI

"Your crown and your sceptre I like full well, They tempt a poor maiden's pride, Sir; But your lands and possessions—excuse if I'm rude— Are too far in a Northerly latitude For me to become your Bride, Sir.

XII

"In that aguish clime I should catch my death, Being but a raw new comer"— Quoth he, "We have plenty of fuel stout; And the fires, which I kindle, never go out By winter, nor yet by summer.

XIII

"I am Prince of Hell, and Lord Paramount Over Monarchs there abiding. My Groom of the Stables is Nimrod old; And Nebuchadnazor my stirrups must hold, When I go out a riding.

XIV

"To spare your blushes, and maiden fears, I resorted to these inventions— But, Imposture, begone; and avaunt, Disguise!" And the Devil began to swell and rise To his own diabolic dimensions.

XV

Twin horns from his forehead shot up to the moon, Like a branching stag in Arden; Dusk wings through his shoulders with eagle's strength Push'd out; and his train lay floundering in length An acre beyond the garden.—

XVI

To tender hearts I have framed my lay— Judge ye, all love-sick Maidens, When the virgin saw in the soft moonlight, In his proper proportions, her own true knight, If she needed long persuadings.

XVII

Yet a maidenly modesty kept her back, As her sex's art had taught her: For "the biggest Fortunes," quoth she, "in the land— Are not worthy"—then blush'd—"of your Highness's hand— Much less a poor Taylor's daughter.

XVIII

"There's the two Miss Crockfords are single still, For whom great suitors hunger; And their Father's hell is much larger than mine"— Quoth the Devil, "I've no such ambitious design, For their Dad is an old Fishmonger;

XIX

"And I cannot endure the smell of fish— I have taken an anti-bias To their livers, especially since the day That the Angel smoked my cousin away From the chaste spouse of Tobias.

XX

"Had my amorous kinsman much longer staid, The perfume would have seal'd his obit; For he had a nicer nose than the wench, Who cared not a pin for the smother and stench, In the arms of the Son of Tobit."

XXI

"I have read it," quoth she, "in Apocryphal Writ"— And the Devil stoop'd down, and kiss'd her; Not Jove himself, when he courted in flame, On Semele's lips, the love-scorch'd Dame, Impress'd such a burning blister.

XXII

The fire through her bones and her vitals shot— "O, I yield, my winsome marrow— I am thine for life"—and black thunders roll'd— And she sank in his arms through the garden mould, With the speed of a red-hot arrow.

XXIII

Merrily, merrily, ring the bells From each Pandemonian steeple; For the Devil hath gotten his beautiful Bride, And a Wedding Dinner he will provide, To feast all kinds of people.

XXIV

Fat bulls of Basan are roasted whole, Of the breed that ran at David; With the flesh of goats, on the sinister side, That shall stand apart, when the world is tried; Fit meat for souls unsaved!

XXV

The fowl from the spit were the Harpies' brood, Which the bard sang near Cremona, With a garnish of bats in their leathern wings imp't; And the fish was—two delicate slices crimp't, Of the whale that swallow'd Jonah.

XXVI

Then the goblets were crown'd, and a health went round To the Bride, in a wine like scarlet; No earthly vintage so deeply paints, For 'twas dash'd with a tinge from the blood of the Saints By the Babylonian Harlot.

XXVII

No Hebe fair stood Cup Bearer there, The guests were their own skinkers; But Bishop Judas first blest the can, Who is of all Hell Metropolitan, And kiss'd it to all the drinkers.

XXVIII

The feast being ended, to dancing they went, To a music that did produce a Most dissonant sound, while a hellish glee Was sung in parts by the Furies Three; And the Devil took out Medusa.

XXIX

But the best of the sport was to hear his old Dam, Set up her shrill forlorn pipe— How the wither'd Beldam hobbled about, And put the rest of the company out— For she needs must try a horn-pipe.

XXX

But the heat, and the press, and the noise, and the din, Were so great, that, howe'er unwilling, Our Reporter no longer was able to stay, But came in his own defence away, And left the Bride quadrilling.



PROLOGUES AND EPILOGUES

EPILOGUE TO GODWIN'S TRAGEDY OF "ANTONIO"

(1800)

Ladies, ye've seen how Guzman's consort died, Poor victim of a Spaniard brother's pride, When Spanish honour through the world was blown, And Spanish beauty for the best was known[19]. In that romantic, unenlighten'd time, A breach of promise[20] was a sort of crime— Which of you handsome English ladies here, But deem the penance bloody and severe? A whimsical old Saragossa[21] fashion, That a dead father's dying inclination, Should live to thwart a living daughter's passion[22], Unjustly on the sex we[23] men exclaim, Rail at your[24] vices,—and commit the same;— Man is a promise-breaker from the womb, And goes a promise-breaker to the tomb— What need we instance here the lover's vow, The sick man's purpose, or the great man's bow[25]? The truth by few examples best is shown— Instead of many which are better known, Take poor Jack Incident, that's dead and gone. Jack, of dramatic genius justly vain, Purchased a renter's share at Drury-lane; A prudent man in every other matter, Known at his club-room for an honest hatter; Humane and courteous, led a civil life, And has been seldom known to beat his wife; But Jack is now grown quite another man, Frequents the green-room, knows the plot and plan Of each new piece, And has been seen to talk with Sheridan! In at the play-house just at six he pops, And never quits it till the curtain drops, Is never absent on the author's night, Knows actresses and actors too—by sight; So humble, that with Suett he'll confer, Or take a pipe with plain Jack Bannister; Nay, with an author has been known so free, He once suggested a catastrophe— In short, John dabbled till his head was turn'd: His wife remonstrated, his neighbours mourn'd, His customers were dropping off apace, And Jack's affairs began to wear a piteous face.

One night his wife began a curtain lecture; 'My dearest Johnny, husband, spouse, protector, Take pity on your helpless babes and me, Save us from ruin, you from bankruptcy— Look to your business, leave these cursed plays, And try again your old industrious ways.'

Jack, who was always scared at the Gazette, And had some bits of scull uninjured yet, Promised amendment, vow'd his wife spake reason, 'He would not see another play that season—'

Three stubborn fortnights Jack his promise kept, Was late and early in his shop, eat, slept, And walk'd and talk'd, like ordinary men; No wit, but John the hatter once again— Visits his club: when lo! one fatal night His wife with horror view'd the well-known sight— John's hat, wig, snuff-box—well she knew his tricks— And Jack decamping at the hour of six. Just at the counter's edge a playbill lay, Announcing that 'Pizarro' was the play— 'O Johnny, Johnny, this is your old doing.' Quoth Jack, 'Why what the devil storm's a-brewing? About a harmless play why all this fright? I'll go and see it, if it's but for spite— Zounds, woman! Nelson's[26] to be there to-night.'

[Footnote 19: Four easy lines.]

[Footnote 20: For which the heroine died.]

[Footnote 21: In Spain!!]

[Footnote 22: Two neat lines.]

[Footnote 23: Or you.]

[Footnote 24: Or our, as they have altered it.]

[Footnote 25: Antithesis!!]

[Footnote 26: "A good clap-trap. Nelson has exhibited two or three times at both theatres—and advertised himself."]



PROLOGUE TO GODWIN'S TRAGEDY OF "FAULKENER"

(1807)

An author who has given you all delight, Furnish'd the tale our stage presents to-night. Some of our earliest tears He taught to steal Down our young cheeks, and forc'd us first to feel. To solitary shores whole years confin'd, Who has not read how pensive Crusoe pin'd? Who, now grown old, that did not once admire His goat, his parrot, his uncouth attire, The stick, due-notch'd, that told each tedious day That in the lonely island wore away? Who has not shudder'd, where he stands aghast At sight of human footsteps in the waste? Or joy'd not, when his trembling hands unbind Thee, Friday, gentlest of the savage kind? The genius who conceiv'd that magic tale Was skill'd by native pathos to prevail. His stories, though rough-drawn, and fram'd in haste, Had that which pleas'd our homely grandsires' taste. His was a various pen, that freely rov'd Into all subjects, was in most approv'd. Whate'er the theme, his ready Muse obey'd— Love, courtship, politics, religion, trade— Gifted alike to shine in every sphere, Nov'list, historian, poet, pamphleteer. In some blest interval of party-strife, He drew a striking sketch from private life, Whose moving scenes of intricate distress We try to-night in a dramatic dress: A real story of domestic woe, That asks no aid from music, verse, or show, But trusts to truth, to nature, and Defoe.



EPILOGUE TO HENRY SIDDONS' FARCE, "TIME'S A TELL-TALE"

(1807)

Bound for the port of matrimonial bliss, Ere I hoist sail, I hold it not amiss, (Since prosp'rous ends ask prudent introductions) To take a slight peep at my written instructions. There's nothing like determining in time All questions marital or maritime.

In all seas, straits, gulphs, ports, havens, lands, creeks. Oh! Here it begins. "Season, spring, wind standing at point Desire— The good ship Matrimony—Commander. Blanford, Esq.

Art. I.

"The captain that has the command of her, Or in his absence, the acting officer, To see her planks are sound, her timbers tight."— That acting officer I don't relish quite, No, as I hope to tack another verse on, I'll do those duties in my proper person.

Art. II.

"All mutinies to be suppress'd at first." That's a good caution to prevent the worst.

Art. III.

"That she be properly victual'd, mann'd and stor'd, To see no foreigners are got aboard." That's rather difficult. Do what we can, A vessel sometimes may mistake her man. The safest way in such a parlous doubt, Is steady watch and keep a sharp look out.

Art. IV.

"Whereas their Lords Commissioners (the church) Do strictly authorise the right of search: As always practis'd—you're to understand By these what articles are contraband; Guns, mortars, pistols, halberts, swords, pikes, lances, Ball, powder, shot, and the appurtenances. Videlicet—whatever can be sent To give the enemy encouragement. Ogles are small shot (so the instruction runs), Touches hand grenades, and squeezes rifle guns."

Art. V.

"That no free-bottom'd neutral waiting maid Presume to exercise the carrying trade: The prohibition here contained extends To all commerce cover'd by the name of Friends. Heaven speed the good ship well"—and so it ends. Oh with such wholesome jealousies as these May Albion cherish his old spouse the seas; Keep over her a husband's firm command, Not with too rigid nor too lax a hand. Be gently patient to her swells and throws When big with safeties to himself she goes; Nor while she clips him in a fast embrace, Stand for some female frowns upon her face. But tell the rival world—and tell in Thunder, Whom Nature joined, none ere shall put asunder.



PROLOGUE TO COLERIDGE'S TRAGEDY OF "REMORSE"

(1813)

There are, I am told, who sharply criticise Our modern theatres' unwieldy size. We players shall scarce plead guilty to that charge, Who think a house can never be too large: Griev'd when a rant, that's worth a nation's ear, Shakes some prescrib'd Lyceum's petty sphere; And pleased to mark the grin from space to space Spread epidemic o'er a town's broad face.— O might old Betterton or Booth return To view our structures from their silent urn, Could Quin come stalking from Elysian glades, Or Garrick get a day-rule from the shades— Where now, perhaps, in mirth which Spirits approve, He imitates the ways of men above, And apes the actions of our upper coast, As in his days of flesh he play'd the ghost:— How might they bless our ampler scope to please, And hate their own old shrunk up audiences.— Their houses yet were palaces to those, Which Ben and Fletcher for their triumphs chose. Shakspeare, who wish'd a kingdom for a stage, } Like giant pent in disproportion'd cage, } Mourn'd his contracted strengths and crippled rage. } He who could tame his vast ambition down To please some scatter'd gleanings of a town, And, if some hundred auditors supplied Their meagre meed of claps, was satisfied, How had he felt, when that dread curse of Lear's Had burst tremendous on a thousand ears, While deep-struck wonder from applauding bands Return'd the tribute of as many hands! Rude were his guests; he never made his bow To such an audience as salutes us now. He lack'd the balm of labor, female praise. Few Ladies in his time frequented plays, Or came to see a youth with aukward art And shrill sharp pipe burlesque the woman's part. The very use, since so essential grown, Of painted scenes, was to his stage unknown. The air-blest castle, round whose wholesome crest, The martlet, guest of summer, chose her nest— The forest walks of Arden's fair domain, Where Jaques fed his solitary vein. No pencil's aid as yet had dared supply, Seen only by the intellectual eye. Those scenic helps, denied to Shakspeare's page, Our Author owes to a more liberal age. Nor pomp nor circumstance are wanting here; 'Tis for himself alone that he must fear. Yet shall remembrance cherish the just pride, That (be the laurel granted or denied) He first essay'd in this distinguish'd fane, Severer muses and a tragic strain.



EPILOGUE TO KENNEY'S FARCE, "DEBTOR AND CREDITOR"

(1814)

Spoken by Mr. Liston and Mr. Emery in character

Gosling. False world——

Sampson. You're bit, Sir.

Gosling. Boor! what's that to you? With Love's soft sorrows what hast thou to do? 'Tis here for consolation I must look. (Takes out his pocket book).

Sampson. Nay, Sir, don't put us down in your black book.

Gosling. All Helicon is here.

Sampson. All Hell.

Gosling. You Clod! Did'st never hear of the Pierian God, And the Nine Virgins on the Sacred Hill?

Sampson. Nine Virgins!—Sure!

Gosling. I have them all at will.

Sampson. If Miss fight shy, then—

Gosling. And my suit decline.

Sampson. You'll make a dash at them.

Gosling. I'll tip all nine.

Sampson. What, wed 'em, Sir?

Gosling. O, no—that thought I banish. I woo—not wed; they never bring the Spanish. Their favours I pursue, and court the bays.

Sampson. Mayhap, you're one of them that write the plays?

Gosling. Bumpkin!

Sampson. I'm told the public's well-nigh crammed With such like stuff.

Gosling. The public may be damned.

Sampson. They ha'nt damned you? (inquisitively).

Gosling. This fellow's wond'rous shrewd! I'd tell him if I thought he'd not be rude. Once in my greener years, I wrote a piece.

Sampson. Aye, so did I—at school like—

Gosling. Booby, cease! I mean a Play.

Sampson. Oh!

Gosling. And to crown my joys, 'Twas acted—

Sampson. Well, and how—

Gosling. It made a noise, A kind of mingled—(as if musing).

Sampson. Aye, describe it, try.

Gosling. Like—Were you ever in the pillory?

Sampson. No, Sir, I thank ye, no such kind of game.

Gosling. Bate but the eggs, and it was much the same. Shouts, clamours, laughs, and a peculiar sound, 'Like, like—

Sampson. Like geese, I warrant, in a pound. I like this mainly!

Gosling. Some began to cough, Some cried—

Sampson. Go on—

Gosling. A few—and some—"Go off!" I can't suppress it. Gods! I hear it now; It was in fact a most confounded row. Dire was the din, as when some storm confounds Earth, sea, and sky, with all terrific sounds. Not hungry lions sent forth notes more strange, Not bulls and bears, that have been hoaxed on 'Change.

Sampson. Exeter 'Change you mean—I've seen they bears.

Gosling. The beasts I mean are far less tame than theirs. Change Alley Bruins, nattier though their dress, Might at Polito's study politesse. Brief let me be. My gentle Sampson, pray, Fight Larry Whack, but never write a play.

Sampson. I won't, Sir: and these christian souls petition, To spare all wretched folks in such condition.



EPILOGUE TO AN AMATEUR PERFORMANCE OF "RICHARD II."

(1824)

Of all that act, the hardest task is theirs, Who, bred no Players, play at being Players; Copy the shrug—in Kemble once approved;— Mere mimics' mimics—nature twice removed. Shades of a shadow! who but must have seen The stage-struck hero, in some swelling scene Aspiring to be Lear—stumble on Kean? The admired actor's faults our steps betray,— No less his very beauties lead astray!

In "sad civility" once Garrick sate To see a Play, mangled in form and state; Plebeian Shakspeare must the words supply,— The actors all were Fools—of Quality. The scenes—the dresses—were above rebuke;— Scarce a Performer there below a Duke. He sate, and mused how in his Shakspeare's mind The idea of old Nobility enshrined Should thence a grace and a refinement have Which passed these living Nobles to conceive,— Who with such apish, base gesticulation, Remnants of starts, and dregs of playhouse passion, So foul belied their great forefathers' fashion! He saw—and true Nobility confessed Less in the high-born blood, than lowly poet's breast.

If Lords enacting Lords sometimes may fail, What gentle plea, Spectators, can avail For wight of low degree who dares to stir The long-raked ashes of old Lancaster, And on his nothing-martial front to set Of warlike Gaunt the lofty burgonet? For who shall that Plantagenet display, Majestical in sickness and decay? Or paint the shower of passions fierce and thick On Richard's head—that Royal Splenetic?

Your pardon, not your plaudits, then we claim If we've come short, where Garrick had been tame!



PROLOGUE TO SHERIDAN KNOWLES' COMEDY, "THE WIFE"

(1833)

Untoward fate no luckless wight invades More sorely than the Man who drives two trades; Like Esop's bat, between two natures placed, Scowl'd at by mice, among the birds disgraced. Our author thus, of two-fold fame exactor, Is doubly scouted,—both as Bard, and Actor! Wanting in haste a Prologue, he applied To three poetic friends; was thrice denied. Each glared on him with supercilious glance, As on a Poor Relation met by chance; And one was heard, with more repulsive air, To mutter "Vagabond," "Rogue," "Strolling Player!" A poet once, he found—and look'd aghast— By turning actor, he had lost his caste. The verse patch'd up at length—with like ill fortune His friends behind the scenes he did importune To speak his lines. He found them all fight shy, Nodding their heads in cool civility. "There service in the Drama was enough, The poet might recite the poet's stuff!" The rogues—they like him hugely—but it stung 'em, Somehow—to think a Bard had got among 'em. Their mind made up—no earthly pleading shook it, In pure compassion 'till I undertook it. Disown'd by Poets, and by Actors too, Dear Patrons of both arts, he turns to you! If in your hearts some tender feelings dwell From sweet Virginia, or heroic Tell: If in the scenes which follow you can trace What once has pleased you—an unbidden grace— A touch of nature's work—an awkward start Or ebullition of an Irish heart— Cry, clap, commend it! If you like them not, Your former favours cannot be forgot. Condemn them—damn them—hiss them, if you will— Their author is your grateful servant still!



EPILOGUE TO SHERIDAN KNOWLES' COMEDY, "THE WIFE"

(1833)

When first our Bard his simple will express'd, That I should in his Heroine's robes be dress'd, My fears were with my vanity at strife, How I could act that untried part—a "Wife." But Fancy to the Grison hills me drew, Where Mariana like a wild flower grew, Nursing her garden-kindred: so far I Liked her condition, willing to comply With that sweet single life: when, with a cranch, Down came that thundering, crashing avalanche, Startling my mountain-project! "Take this spade," Said Fancy then; "dig low, adventurous Maid, For hidden wealth." I did: and, Ladies, lo! } Was e'er romantic female's fortune so, } To dig a life-warm lover from the—snow? }

A Wife and Princess see me next, beset With subtle toils, in an Italian net; While knavish Courtiers, stung with rage or fear, Distill'd lip-poison in a husband's ear. I ponder'd on the boiling Southern vein; Racks, cords, stilettos, rush'd upon my brain! By poor, good, weak Antonio, too disowned— I dream'd each night, I should be Desdemona'd: And, being in Mantua, thought upon the shop, Whence fair Verona's youth his breath did stop: And what if Leonardo, in foul scorn, Some lean Apothecary should suborn To take my hated life? A "tortoise" hung Before my eyes, and in my ears scaled "alligators" rung. But my Othello, to his vows more zealous— Twenty Iagos could not make him jealous!

New raised to reputation, and to life— } At your commands behold me, without strife, } Well-pleased, and ready to repeat—"The Wife." }



* * * * *



JOHN WOODVIL

A TRAGEDY

(1798-1802. Text of 1818)

* * * * *

CHARACTERS

SIR WALTER WOODVIL.

JOHN. } SIMON. } his sons.

LOVEL. } GRAY. } Pretended friends of John.

SANDFORD. Sir Walter's old steward. MARGARET. Orphan ward of Sir Walter. FOUR GENTLEMEN. John's riotous companions. SERVANTS.

SCENE—for the most part at Sir Walter's mansion in DEVONSHIRE; at other times in the forest of SHERWOOD.

TIME—soon after the RESTORATION.

* * * * *

ACT THE FIRST

SCENE.—A Servants' Apartment in Woodvil Hall.

Servants drinking—Time, the morning.

* * * * *

A Song by DANIEL

"When the King enjoys his own again."

PETER A delicate song. Where did'st learn it, fellow?

DANIEL Even there, where thou learnest thy oaths and thy politics—at our master's table.—Where else should a serving-man pick up his poor accomplishments?

MARTIN Well spoken, Daniel. O rare Daniel!—his oaths and his politics! excellent!

FRANCIS And where did'st pick up thy knavery, Daniel?

PETER That came to him by inheritance. His family have supplied the shire of Devon, time out of mind, with good thieves and bad serving-men. All of his race have come into the world without their conscience.

MARTIN Good thieves, and bad serving-men! Better and better. I marvel what Daniel hath got to say in reply.

DANIEL I marvel more when thou wilt say any thing to the purpose, thou shallow serving-man, whose swiftest conceit carries thee no higher than to apprehend with difficulty the stale jests of us thy compeers. When was't ever known to club thy own particular jest among us?

MARTIN Most unkind Daniel, to speak such biting things of me!

FRANCIS See—if he hath not brought tears into the poor fellow's eyes with the saltness of his rebuke.

DANIEL No offence, brother Martin—I meant none. 'Tis true, Heaven gives gifts, and with-holds them. It has been pleased to bestow upon me a nimble invention to the manufacture of a jest; and upon thee, Martin, an indifferent bad capacity to understand my meaning.

MARTIN Is that all? I am content. Here's my hand.

FRANCIS Well, I like a little innocent mirth myself, but never could endure bawdry.

DANIEL Quot homines tot sententiae.

MARTIN And what is that?

DANIEL 'Tis Greek, and argues difference of opinion.

MARTIN I hope there is none between us.

DANIEL Here's to thee, brother Martin. (Drinks.)

MARTIN And to thee, Daniel. (Drinks.)

FRANCIS And to thee, Peter. (Drinks.)

PETER Thank you, Francis. And here's to thee. (Drinks.)

MARTIN I shall be fuddled anon.

DANIEL And drunkenness I hold to be a very despicable vice.

ALL O! a shocking vice. (They drink round.)

PETER In as much as it taketh away the understanding.

DANIEL And makes the eyes red.

PETER And the tongue to stammer.

DANIEL And to blab out secrets.

(During this conversation they continue drinking.)

PETER Some men do not know an enemy from a friend when they are drunk.

DANIEL Certainly sobriety is the health of the soul.

MARTIN Now I know I am going to be drunk.

DANIEL How can'st tell, dry-bones?

MARTIN Because I begin to be melancholy. That's always a sign.

FRANCIS Take care of Martin, he'll topple off his seat else.

(Martin drops asleep.)

PETER Times are greatly altered, since young master took upon himself the government of this household.

ALL Greatly altered.

FRANCIS I think every thing be altered for the better since His Majesty's blessed restoration.

PETER In Sir Walter's days there was no encouragement given to good house-keeping.

ALL None.

DANIEL

For instance, no possibility of getting drunk before two in the afternoon.

PETER

Every man his allowance of ale at breakfast—his quart!

ALL A quart!! (in derision.)

DANIEL Nothing left to our own sweet discretions.

PETER Whereby it may appear, we were treated more like beasts than what we were—discreet and reasonable serving-men.

ALL Like beasts.

MARTIN (Opening his eyes.) Like beasts.

DANIEL To sleep, wag-tail!

FRANCIS I marvel all this while where the old gentleman has found means to secrete himself. It seems no man has heard of him since the day of the King's return. Can any tell why our young master, being favoured by the court, should not have interest to procure his father's pardon?

DANIEL Marry, I think 'tis the obstinacy of the old Knight, that will not be beholden to the court for his safety.

MARTIN Now that is wilful.

FRANCIS But can any tell me the place of his concealment?

PETER That cannot I; but I have my conjectures.

DANIEL Two hundred pounds, as I hear, to the man that shall apprehend him.

FRANCIS Well, I have my suspicions.

PETER And so have I.

MARTIN And I can keep a secret.

FRANCIS (To Peter.) Warwickshire you mean. (Aside.)

PETER Perhaps not.

FRANCIS Nearer perhaps.

PETER I say nothing.

DANIEL I hope there is none in this company would be mean enough to betray him.

ALL O Lord, surely not. (They drink to Sir Walter's safety.)

FRANCIS I have often wondered how our master came to be excepted by name in the late Act of Oblivion.

DANIEL Shall I tell the reason?

ALL Aye, do.

DANIEL 'Tis thought he is no great friend to the present happy establishment.

ALL O! monstrous!

PETER Fellow servants, a thought strikes me.—Do we, or do we not, come under the penalties of the treason-act, by reason of our being privy to this man's concealment.

ALL Truly a sad consideration.

To them enters Sandford suddenly.

SANDFORD You well-fed and unprofitable grooms, Maintained for state, not use; You lazy feasters at another's cost, That eat like maggots into an estate, And do as little work, Being indeed but foul excrescences, And no just parts in a well-order'd family; You base and rascal imitators, Who act up to the height your master's vices, But cannot read his virtues in your bond: Which of you, as I enter'd, spake of betraying? Was it you, or you, or, thin-face, was it you?

MARTIN Whom does he call thin-face?

SANDFORD No prating, loon, but tell me who he was, That I may brain the villain with my staff, That seeks Sir Walter's life? You miserable men, With minds more slavish than your slave's estate, Have you that noble bounty so forgot, Which took you from the looms, and from the ploughs, Which better had ye follow'd, fed ye, cloth'd ye, And entertain'd ye in a worthy service, Where your best wages was the world's repute, That thus ye seek his life, by whom ye live? Have you forgot too, How often in old times Your drunken mirths have stunn'd day's sober ears, Carousing full cups to Sir Walter's health?— Whom now ye would betray, but that he lies Out of the reach of your poor treacheries. This learn from me, Our master's secret sleeps with trustier tongues, Than will unlock themselves to carls like you. Go, get you gone, you knaves. Who stirs? this staff Shall teach you better manners else.

ALL Well, we are going.

SANDFORD And quickly too, ye had better, for I see Young mistress Margaret coming this way. (Exeunt all but Sandford.)

Enter Margaret, as in a fright, pursued by a Gentleman, who, seeing Sandford, retires muttering a curse. Sandford, Margaret.

SANDFORD Good-morrow to my fair mistress. 'Twas a chance I saw you, lady, so intent was I On chiding hence these graceless serving-men, Who cannot break their fast at morning meals Without debauch and mis-timed riotings. This house hath been a scene of nothing else But atheist riot and profane excess, Since my old master quitted all his rights here.

MARGARET Each day I endure fresh insult from the scorn Of Woodvil's friends, the uncivil jests, And free discourses, of the dissolute men, That haunt this mansion, making me their mirth.

SANDFORD Does my young master know of these affronts?

MARGARET I cannot tell. Perhaps he has not been told. Perhaps he might have seen them if he would. I have known him more quick-sighted. Let that pass. All things seem chang'd, I think. I had a friend, (I can't but weep to think him alter'd too,) These things are best forgotten; but I knew A man, a young man, young, and full of honor, That would have pick'd a quarrel for a straw, And fought it out to the extremity, E'en with the dearest friend he had alive, On but a bare surmise, a possibility, That Margaret had suffer'd an affront. Some are too tame, that were too splenetic once.

SANDFORD 'Twere best he should be told of these affronts.

MARGARET I am the daughter of his father's friend, Sir Walter's orphan-ward. I am not his servant maid, that I should wait The opportunity of a gracious hearing, Enquire the times and seasons when to put My peevish prayer up at young Woodvil's feet, And sue to him for slow redress, who was Himself a suitor late to Margaret. I am somewhat proud: and Woodvil taught me pride. I was his favourite once, his playfellow in infancy, And joyful mistress of his youth. None once so pleasant in his eyes as Margaret. His conscience, his religion, Margaret was, His dear heart's confessor, a heart within that heart, And all dear things summ'd up in her alone. As Margaret smil'd or frown'd John liv'd or died: His dress, speech, gesture, studies, friendships, all Being fashion'd to her liking. His flatteries taught me first this self-esteem, His flatteries and caresses, while he loved. The world esteem'd her happy, who had won His heart, who won all hearts; And ladies envied me the love of Woodvil.

SANDFORD He doth affect the courtier's life too much, Whose art is to forget, And that has wrought this seeming change in him, That was by nature noble. 'Tis these court-plagues, that swarm about our house, Have done the mischief, making his fancy giddy With images of state, preferment, place, Tainting his generous spirits with ambition.

MARGARET I know not how it is; A cold protector is John grown to me. The mistress, and presumptive wife, of Woodvil Can never stoop so low to supplicate A man, her equal, to redress those wrongs, Which he was bound first to prevent; But which his own neglects have sanction'd rather, Both sanction'd and provok'd: a mark'd neglect, And strangeness fast'ning bitter on his love, His love which long has been upon the wane. For me, I am determined what to do: 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. You know not half the dangers that attend Upon a life of wand'ring, which your thoughts now, Feeling the swellings of a lofty anger, To your abused fancy, as 'tis likely, Portray without its terrors, painting lies And representments of fallacious liberty— You know not what it is to leave the roof that 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 them, And cowardice grows enamour'd of rare accidents. 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, To bear you on your way to Nottingham.

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.

"MARGARET."

Gone! gone! my girl? so hasty, Margaret! And never a kiss at parting? shallow loves, And likings of a ten days' growth, use courtesies, And shew red eyes at parting. Who bids "farewell" In the same tone he cries "God speed you, Sir?" Or tells of joyful victories at sea, Where he hath ventures? does not rather muffle His organs to emit a leaden sound, To suit the melancholy dull "farewell," Which they in Heaven not use?— So peevish, Margaret? But 'tis the common error of your sex, When our idolatry slackens, or grows less, (As who of woman born can keep his faculty Of Admiration, being a decaying faculty, For ever strain'd to the pitch? or can at pleasure Make it renewable, as some appetites are, As, namely, Hunger, Thirst?—) this being the case, They tax us with neglect, and love grown cold, Coin plainings of the perfidy of men, Which into maxims pass, and apothegms To be retailed in ballads.— I know them all. They are jealous, when our larger hearts receive More guests than one. (Love in a woman's heart Being all in one.) For me, I am sure I have room here For more disturbers of my sleep than one. Love shall have part, but Love shall not have all. Ambition, Pleasure, Vanity, all by turns, Shall lie in my bed, and keep me fresh and waking; Yet Love not be excluded.—Foolish wench, I could have lov'd her twenty years to come, And still have kept my liking. But since 'tis so, Why, fare thee well, old play-fellow! I'll try To squeeze a tear for old acquaintance sake. I shall not grudge so much.—

To him enters Lovel.

LOVEL Bless us, Woodvil! what is the matter? I protest, man, I thought you had been weeping.

WOODVIL Nothing is the matter, only the wench has forced some water into my eyes, which will quickly disband.

LOVEL I cannot conceive you.

WOODVIL Margaret is flown.

LOVEL Upon what pretence?

WOODVIL Neglect on my part: which it seems she has had the wit to discover, maugre all my pains to conceal it.

LOVEL Then, you confess the charge?

WOODVIL To say the truth, my love for her has of late stopt short on this side idolatry.

LOVEL As all good Christians' should, I think.

WOODVIL I am sure, I could have loved her still within the limits of warrantable love.

LOVEL A kind of brotherly affection, I take it.

WOODVIL We should have made excellent man and wife in time.

LOVEL A good old couple, when the snows fell, to crowd about a sea-coal fire, and talk over old matters.

WOODVIL While each should feel, what neither cared to acknowledge, that stories oft repeated may, at last, come to lose some of their grace by the repetition.

LOVEL Which both of you may yet live long enough to discover. For, take my word for it, Margaret is a bird that will come back to you without a lure.

WOODVIL Never, never, Lovel. Spite of my levity, with tears I confess it, she was a lady of most confirmed honour, of an unmatchable spirit, and determinate in all virtuous resolutions; not hasty to anticipate an affront, nor slow to feel, where just provocation was given.

LOVEL What made you neglect her, then?

WOODVIL Mere levity and youthfulness of blood, a malady incident to young men, physicians call it caprice. Nothing else. He, that slighted her, knew her value: and 'tis odds, but, for thy sake, Margaret, John will yet go to his grave a bachelor. (A noise heard, as of one drunk and singing.)

LOVEL Here comes one, that will quickly dissipate these humours.

(Enter one drunk.)

DRUNKEN MAN Good-morrow to you, gentlemen. Mr. Lovel, I am your humble servant. Honest Jack Woodvil, I will get drunk with you to-morrow.

WOODVIL And why to-morrow, honest Mr. Freeman?

DRUNKEN MAN I scent a traitor in that question. A beastly question. Is it not his Majesty's birth-day? the day, of all days in the year, on which King Charles the second was graciously pleased to be born. (Sings) "Great pity 'tis such days as those should come but once a year."

LOVEL Drunk in a morning! foh! how he stinks!

DRUNKEN MAN And why not drunk in a morning? can'st tell, bully?

WOODVIL Because, being the sweet and tender infancy of the day, methinks, it should ill endure such early blightings.

DRUNKEN MAN I grant you, 'tis in some sort the youth and tender nonage of the day. Youth is bashful, and I give it a cup to encourage it. (Sings) "Ale that will make Grimalkin prate."—At noon I drink for thirst, at night for fellowship, but, above all, I love to usher in the bashful morning under the auspices of a freshening stoop of liquor. (Sings) "Ale in a Saxon rumkin then makes valour burgeon in tall men."—But, I crave pardon. I fear I keep that gentleman from serious thoughts. There be those that wait for me in the cellar.

WOODVIL Who are they?

DRUNKEN MAN Gentlemen, my good friends, Cleveland, Delaval, and Truby. I know by this time they are all clamorous for me. (Exit, singing.)

WOODVIL This keeping of open house acquaints a man with strange companions.

(Enter, at another door, Three calling for Harry Freeman._)

Harry Freeman, Harry Freeman. He is not here. Let us go look for him. Where is Freeman? Where is Harry?

(Exeunt the Three, calling for Freeman.)

WOODVIL Did you ever see such gentry? (laughing). These are they that fatten on ale and tobacco in a morning, drink burnt brandy at noon to promote digestion, and piously conclude with quart bumpers after supper, to prove their loyalty.

LOVEL Come, shall we adjourn to the Tennis Court?

WOODVIL No, you shall go with me into the gallery, where I will shew you the Vandyke I have purchased. "The late King taking leave of his children."

LOVEL I will but adjust my dress, and attend you. (Exit Lovel.)

JOHN WOODVIL (alone) Now Universal England getteth drunk For joy that Charles, her monarch, is restored: And she, that sometime wore a saintly mask, The stale-grown vizor from her face doth pluck, And weareth now a suit of morris bells, With which she jingling goes through all her towns and villages. The baffled factions in their houses sculk: The common-wealthsman, and state machinist, The cropt fanatic, and fifth-monarchy-man, Who heareth of these visionaries now? They and their dreams have ended. Fools do sing, Where good men yield God thanks; but politic spirits, Who live by observation, note these changes Of the popular mind, and thereby serve their ends. Then why not I? What's Charles to me, or Oliver, But as my own advancement hangs on one of them? I to myself am chief.—I know, Some shallow mouths cry out, that I am smit With the gauds and shew of state, the point of place, And trick of precedence, the ducks, and nods, Which weak minds pay to rank. 'Tis not to sit In place of worship at the royal masques, Their pastimes, plays, and Whitehall banquetings, For none of these, Nor yet to be seen whispering with some great one, Do I affect the favours of the court. I would be great, for greatness hath great power, And that's the fruit I reach at.— Great spirits ask great play-room. Who could sit, With these prophetic swellings in my breast, That prick and goad me on, and never cease, To the fortunes something tells me I was born to? Who, with such monitors within to stir him, Would sit him down, with lazy arms across, A unit, a thing without a name in the state, A something to be govern'd, not to govern, A fishing, hawking, hunting, country gentleman? (Exit.)



SCENE.—Sherwood Forest.

SIR WALTER WOODVIL. SIMON WOODVIL. (Disguised as Frenchmen.)

SIR WALTER How fares my boy, Simon, my youngest born, My hope, my pride, young Woodvil, speak to me? Some grief untold weighs heavy at thy heart: I know it by thy alter'd cheer of late. Thinkest, thy brother plays thy father false? It is a mad and thriftless prodigal, Grown proud upon the favours of the court; Court manners, and court fashions, he affects, And in the heat and uncheck'd blood of youth, Harbours a company of riotous men, All hot, and young, court-seekers, like himself, Most skilful to devour a patrimony; And these have eat into my old estates, And these have drain'd thy father's cellars dry; But these so common faults of youth not named, (Things which themselves outgrow, left to themselves,) I know no quality that stains his honor. 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 sometimes 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 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?

MARGARET I cannot tell. 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 delights grow, Old custom has made pleasant.

SIR WALTER You, that are read 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. (Kneeling.)

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

MARGARET Yes, till her suit is answer'd.

SIR WALTER Name it.

MARGARET A little boon, and yet so great a grace, She fears to ask it.

SIR WALTER Some riddle, Margaret?

MARGARET No riddle, but a plain request.

SIR WALTER Name it.

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.—

SIMON Why, whither should we go?

SIR WALTER You to the Court, where now your brother John Commits a rape on Fortune.

SIMON Luck to John! 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 beauty.

MARGARET Where young men's flatteries cozen young maids' beauty, There pride oft gets the vantage hand of duty, There sweet humility withers.

SIMON Mistress Margaret, How fared my brother John, when you left Devon?

MARGARET John was well, Sir.

SIMON 'Tis now nine months almost, 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. It is a scurvy brother.

SIR WALTER Fie upon it. 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 general-contemplative 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, And dies by some child's hand. The feeble bird With little wings, yet greatly venturous In the upper sky. The fish in th' other element, That knows no touch of eloquence. What else? Yon tall and elegant stag, Who paints a dancing shadow of his horns In the water, where he drinks.

MARGARET I myself love all these things, yet so as with a difference:— for example, some animals better than others, some men rather than other men; the nightingale before the cuckoo, the swift and graceful palfrey before the slow and asinine mule. Your humour goes to confound all qualities. What sports do you use in the forest?—

SIMON Not many; some few, as thus:— To see the sun to bed, and to arise, Like some hot amourist with glowing eyes, Bursting the lazy bands of sleep that bound him, With all his fires and travelling glories round him. Sometimes the moon on soft night clouds to rest, Like beauty nestling in a young man's breast, And all the winking stars, her handmaids, keep Admiring silence, while those lovers sleep. Sometimes outstretcht, in very idleness, Nought doing, saying little, thinking less, To view the leaves, thin dancers upon air, Go eddying round; and small birds, how they fare, When mother Autumn fills their beaks with corn, Filch'd from the careless Amalthea's horn; And how the woods berries and worms provide Without their pains, when earth has nought beside To answer their small wants. To view the graceful deer come tripping by, Then stop, and gaze, then turn, they know not why, Like bashful younkers in society. To mark the structure of a plant or tree, And all fair things of earth, how fair they be.

MARGARET (smiling) And, afterwards them paint in simile.

SIR WALTER Mistress Margaret will have need of some refreshment. Please you, we have some poor viands within.

MARGARET Indeed I stand in need of them.

SIR WALTER Under the shade of a thick-spreading tree, Upon the grass, no better carpeting, We'll eat our noon-tide meal; and, dinner done, One of us shall repair to Nottingham, To seek some safe night-lodging in the town, Where you may sleep, while here with us you dwell, By day, in the forest, expecting better times, And gentler habitations, noble Margaret.

SIMON Allons, young Frenchman—

MARGARET Allons, Sir Englishman. The time has been, I've studied love-lays in the English tongue, And been enamour'd of rare poesy: Which now I must unlearn. Henceforth, Sweet mother-tongue, old English speech, adieu; For Margaret has got new name and language new.

(Exeunt.)



ACT THE THIRD

SCENE.—An Apartment of State in Woodvil Hall—Cavaliers drinking.

JOHN WOODVIL, LOVEL, GRAY, and four more.

JOHN More mirth, I beseech you, gentlemen—Mr. Gray, you are not merry.—

GRAY More wine, say I, and mirth shall ensue in course. What! we have not yet above three half-pints a man to answer for. Brevity is the soul of drinking, as of wit. Despatch, I say. More wine. (Fills.)

FIRST GENTLEMAN I entreat you, let there be some order, some method, in our drinkings. I love to lose my reason with my eyes open, to commit the deed of drunkenness with forethought and deliberation. I love to feel the fumes of the liquor gathering here, like clouds.

SECOND GENTLEMAN And I am for plunging into madness at once. Damn order, and method, and steps, and degrees, that he speaks of. Let confusion have her legitimate work.

LOVEL I marvel why the poets, who, of all men, methinks, should possess the hottest livers, and most empyreal fancies, should affect to see such virtues in cold water.

GRAY Virtue in cold water! ha! ha! ha!—

JOHN Because your poet-born hath an internal wine, richer than lippara or canaries, yet uncrushed from any grapes of earth, unpressed in mortal wine-presses.

THIRD GENTLEMAN What may be the name of this wine?

JOHN It hath as many names as qualities. It is denominated indifferently, wit, conceit, invention, inspiration, but its most royal and comprehensive name is fancy.

THIRD GENTLEMAN And where keeps he this sovereign liquor?

JOHN Its cellars are in the brain, whence your true poet deriveth intoxication at will; while his animal spirits, catching a pride from the quality and neighbourhood of their noble relative, the brain, refuse to be sustained by wines and fermentations of earth.

THIRD GENTLEMAN But is your poet-born alway tipsy with this liquor?

JOHN He hath his stoopings and reposes; but his proper element is the sky, and in the suburbs of the empyrean.

THIRD GENTLEMAN Is your wine-intellectual so exquisite? henceforth, I, a man of plain conceit, will, in all humility, content my mind with canaries.

FOURTH GENTLEMAN I am for a song or a catch. When will the catches come on, the sweet wicked catches?

JOHN They cannot be introduced with propriety before midnight. Every man must commit his twenty bumpers first. We are not yet well roused. Frank Lovel, the glass stands with you.

LOVEL Gentlemen, the Duke. (Fills.)

ALL The Duke. (They drink.)

GRAY Can any tell, why his Grace, being a Papist—

JOHN Pshaw! we will have no questions of state now. Is not this his Majesty's birth-day?

GRAY What follows?

JOHN That every man should sing, and be joyful, and ask no questions.

SECOND GENTLEMAN Damn politics, they spoil drinking.

THIRD GENTLEMAN For certain,'tis a blessed monarchy.

SECOND GENTLEMAN The cursed fanatic days we have seen! The times have been when swearing was out of fashion.

THIRD GENTLEMAN And drinking.

FIRST GENTLEMAN And wenching.

GRAY The cursed yeas and forsooths, which we have heard uttered, when a man could not rap out an innocent oath, but strait the air was thought to be infected.

LOVEL 'Twas a pleasant trick of the saint, which that trim puritan Swear-not-at-all Smooth-speech used, when his spouse chid him with an oath for committing with his servant-maid, to cause his house to be fumigated with burnt brandy, and ends of scripture, to disperse the devil's breath, as he termed it.

ALL Ha! ha! ha!

GRAY But 'twas pleasanter, when the other saint Resist-the-devil- and-he-will-flee-from-thee Pure-man was overtaken in the act, to plead an illusio visus, and maintain his sanctity upon a supposed power in the adversary to counterfeit the shapes of things.

ALL Ha! ha! ha!

JOHN Another round, and then let every man devise what trick he can in his fancy, for the better manifesting our loyalty this day.

GRAY Shall we hang a puritan?

JOHN No, that has been done already in Coleman-Street.

SECOND GENTLEMAN Or fire a conventicle?

JOHN That is stale too.

THIRD GENTLEMAN Or burn the assembly's catechism?

FOURTH GENTLEMAN Or drink the king's health, every man standing upon his head naked?

JOHN (to Lovel) We have here some pleasant madness.

THIRD GENTLEMAN Who shall pledge me in a pint bumper, while we drink to the king upon our knees?

LOVEL Why on our knees, Cavalier?

JOHN (smiling) For more devotion, to be sure. (To a servant.) Sirrah, fetch the gilt goblets.

(The goblets are brought. They drink the king's health, kneeling. A shout of general approbation following the first appearance of the goblets.)

JOHN We have here the unchecked virtues of the grape. How the vapours curl upwards! It were a life of gods to dwell in such an element: to see, and hear, and talk brave things. Now fie upon these casual potations. That a man's most exalted reason should depend upon the ignoble fermenting of a fruit, which sparrows pluck at as well as we!

GRAY (aside to Lovel) Observe how he is ravished.

LOVEL Vanity and gay thoughts of wine do meet in him and engender madness.

(While the rest are engaged in a wild kind of talk, John advances to the front of the stage and soliloquises.)

JOHN My spirits turn to fire, they mount so fast. My joys are turbulent, my hopes shew like fruition. These high and gusty relishes of life, sure, Have no allayings of mortality in them. I am too hot now and o'ercapable, For the tedious processes, and creeping wisdom, Of human acts, and enterprizes of a man. I want some seasonings of adversity, Some strokes of the old mortifier Calamity, To take these swellings down, divines call vanity.

FIRST GENTLEMAN Mr. Woodvil, Mr. Woodvil.

SECOND GENTLEMAN Where is Woodvil?

GRAY Let him alone. I have seen him in these lunes before. His abstractions must not taint the good mirth.

JOHN (continuing to soliloquize) O for some friend now, To conceal nothing from, to have no secrets. How fine and noble a thing is confidence, How reasonable too, and almost godlike! Fast cement of fast friends, band of society, Old natural go-between in the world's business, Where civil life and order, wanting this cement, Would presently rush back Into the pristine state of singularity, And each man stand alone.

(A Servant enters.) Gentlemen, the fire-works are ready.

FIRST GENTLEMAN What be they?

LOVEL The work of London artists, which our host has provided in honour of this day.

SECOND GENTLEMAN 'Sdeath, who would part with his wine for a rocket?

LOVEL Why truly, gentlemen, as our kind host has been at the pains to provide this spectacle, we can do no less than be present at it. It will not take up much time. Every man may return fresh and thirsting to his liquor.

THIRD GENTLEMAN There is reason in what he says.

SECOND GENTLEMAN Charge on then, bottle in hand. There's husbandry in that.

(They go out, singing. Only Level remains, who observes Woodvil.)

JOHN (still talking to himself) This Lovel here's of a tough honesty, Would put the rack to the proof. He is not of that sort, Which haunt my house, snorting the liquors, And when their wisdoms are afloat with wine, Spend vows as fast as vapours, which go off Even with the fumes, their fathers. He is one, Whose sober morning actions Shame not his o'ernight's promises; Talks little, flatters less, and makes no promises; Why this is he, whom the dark-wisdom'd fate Might trust her counsels of predestination with, And the world be no loser. Why should I fear this man? (Seeing Lovel.) Where is the company gone?

LOVEL To see the fire-works, where you will be expected to follow. But I perceive you are better engaged.

JOHN I have been meditating this half-hour On all the properties of a brave friendship, The mysteries that are in it, the noble uses, Its limits withal, and its nice boundaries. Exempli gratia, how far a man May lawfully forswear himself for his friend; What quantity of lies, some of them brave ones, He may lawfully incur in a friend's behalf; What oaths, blood-crimes, hereditary quarrels, Night brawls, fierce words, and duels in the morning, He need not stick at, to maintain his friend's honor, or his cause.

LOVEL I think many men would die for their friends.

JOHN Death! why 'tis nothing. We go to it for sport, To gain a name, or purse, or please a sullen humour, When one has worn his fortune's livery threadbare, Or his spleen'd mistress frowns. Husbands will venture on it, To cure the hot fits and cold shakings of jealousy. A friend, sir, must do more.

LOVEL Can he do more than die?

JOHN To serve a friend this he may do. Pray mark me. Having a law within (great spirits feel one) He cannot, ought not to be bound by any Positive laws or ord'nances extern, But may reject all these: by the law of friendship He may do so much, be they, indifferently, Penn'd statutes, or the land's unwritten usages, As public fame, civil compliances, Misnamed honor, trust in matter of secrets, All vows and promises, the feeble mind's religion, (Binding our morning knowledge to approve What last night's ignorance spake); The ties of blood withal, and prejudice of kin. Sir, these weak terrors Must never shake me. I know what belongs To a worthy friendship. Come, you shall have my confidence.

LOVEL I hope you think me worthy.

JOHN You will smile to hear now— Sir Walter never has been out of the island.

LOVEL You amaze me.

JOHN That same report of his escape to France Was a fine tale, forg'd by myself—Ha! ha! I knew it would stagger him.

LOVEL Pray, give me leave. Where has he dwelt, how liv'd, how lain conceal'd? Sure I may ask so much.

JOHN From place to place, dwelling in no place long, My brother Simon still hath borne him company, ('Tis a brave youth, I envy him all his virtues.) Disguis'd in foreign garb, they pass for Frenchmen, Two Protestant exiles from the Limosin Newly arriv'd. Their dwelling's now at Nottingham, Where no soul knows them.

LOVEL Can you assign any reason, why a gentleman of Sir Walter's known prudence should expose his person so lightly?

JOHN I believe, a certain fondness, A child-like cleaving to the land that gave him birth, Chains him like fate.

LOVEL I have known some exiles thus To linger out the term of the law's indulgence, To the hazard of being known.

JOHN You may suppose sometimes They use the neighb'ring Sherwood for their sport, Their exercise and freer recreation.— I see you smile. Pray now, be careful.

LOVEL I am no babbler, sir; you need not fear me.

JOHN But some men have been known to talk in their sleep, And tell fine tales that way.

LOVEL I have heard so much. But, to say truth, I mostly sleep alone.

JOHN Or drink, sir? do you never drink too freely? Some men will drink, and tell you all their secrets.

LOVEL Why do you question me, who know my habits?

JOHN I think you are no sot, No tavern-troubler, worshipper of the grape; But all men drink sometimes, And veriest saints at festivals relax, The marriage of a friend, or a wife's birth-day.

LOVEL How much, sir, may a man with safety drink? (Smiling.)

JOHN Sir, three half pints a day is reasonable; I care not if you never exceed that quantity.

LOVEL I shall observe it; On holidays two quarts.

JOHN Or stay; you keep no wench?

LOVEL Ha!

JOHN No painted mistress for your private hours? You keep no whore, sir?

LOVEL What does he mean?

JOHN Who for a close embrace, a toy of sin, And amorous praising of your worship's breath, In rosy junction of four melting lips, Can kiss out secrets from you?

LOVEL How strange this passionate behaviour shews in you! Sure you think me some weak one.

JOHN Pray pardon me some fears. You have now the pledge of a dear father's life. I am a son—would fain be thought a loving one; You may allow me some fears: do not despise me, If, in a posture foreign to my spirit, And by our well-knit friendship I conjure you, Touch not Sir Walter's life. (Kneels.) You see these tears. My father's an old man. Pray let him live.

LOVEL I must be bold to tell you, these new freedoms Shew most unhandsome in you.

JOHN (rising) Ha! do you say so? Sure, you are not grown proud upon my secret! Ah! now I see it plain. He would be babbling. No doubt a garrulous and hard-fac'd traitor— But I'll not give you leave. (Draws.)

LOVEL What does this madman mean?

JOHN Come, sir; here is no subterfuge. You must kill me, or I kill you.

LOVEL (drawing) Then self-defence plead my excuse. Have at you, sir. (They fight.)

JOHN Stay, sir. I hope you have made your will. If not, 'tis no great matter. A broken cavalier has seldom much He can bequeath: an old worn peruke, A snuff-box with a picture of Prince Rupert, A rusty sword he'll swear was used at Naseby, Though it ne'er came within ten miles of the place; And, if he's very rich, A cheap edition of the Icon Basilike, Is mostly all the wealth he dies possest of. You say few prayers, I fancy;— So to it again. (They fight again. Lovel is disarmed.)

LOVEL You had best now take my life. I guess you mean it.

JOHN (musing) No:—Men will say I fear'd him, if I kill'd him. Live still, and be a traitor in thy wish, But never act thy thought, being a coward. That vengeance, which thy soul shall nightly thirst for, And this disgrace I've done you cry aloud for, Still have the will without the power to execute. So now I leave you, Feeling a sweet security. No doubt My secret shall remain a virgin for you!— (Goes out, smiling in scorn.)

LOVEL (rising) For once you are mistaken in your man. The deed you wot of shall forthwith be done. A bird let loose, a secret out of hand, Returns not back. Why, then 'tis baby policy To menace him who hath it in his keeping. I will go look for Gray; Then, northward ho! such tricks as we shall play Have not been seen, I think, in merry Sherwood, Since the days of Robin Hood, that archer good.



ACT THE FOURTH

SCENE.—An Apartment in Woodvil Hall.

JOHN WOODVIL (alone) A weight of wine lies heavy on my head, The unconcocted follies of last night. Now all those jovial fancies, and bright hopes, Children of wine, go off like dreams. This sick vertigo here Preacheth of temperance, no sermon better. These black thoughts, and dull melancholy, That stick like burrs to the brain, will they ne'er leave me? Some men are full of choler, when they are drunk; Some brawl of matter foreign to themselves; And some, the most resolved fools of all, Have told their dearest secrets in their cups.



SCENE.—The Forest.

SIR WALTER. SIMON. LOVEL. GRAY.

LOVEL Sir, we are sorry we cannot return your French salutation.

GRAY Nor otherwise consider this garb you trust to than as a poor disguise.

LOVEL Nor use much ceremony with a traitor.

GRAY Therefore, without much induction of superfluous words, I attach you, Sir Walter Woodvil, of High Treason, in the King's name.

LOVEL And of taking part in the great Rebellion against our late lawful Sovereign, Charles the First.

SIMON John has betrayed us, father.

LOVEL Come, Sir, you had best surrender fairly. We know you, Sir.

SIMON Hang ye, villains, ye are two better known than trusted. I have seen those faces before. Are ye not two beggarly retainers, trencher-parasites, to John? I think ye rank above his footmen. A sort of bed and board worms—locusts that infest our house; a leprosy that long has hung upon its walls and princely apartments, reaching to fill all the corners of my brother's once noble heart.

GRAY We are his friends.

SIMON Fie, Sir, do not weep. How these rogues will triumph! Shall I whip off their heads, father? (Draws.)

LOVEL Come, Sir, though this shew handsome in you, being his son, yet the law must have its course.

SIMON And if I tell you the law shall not have its course, cannot ye be content? Courage, father; shall such things as these apprehend a man? Which of ye will venture upon me?—Will you, Mr. Constable self-elect? or you, Sir, with a pimple on your nose, got at Oxford by hard drinking, your only badge of loyalty?

GRAY 'Tis a brave youth—I cannot strike at him.

SIMON Father, why do you cover your face with your hands? Why do you fetch your breath so hard? See, villains, his heart is burst! O villains, he cannot speak. One of you run for some water: quickly, ye knaves; will ye have your throats cut? (They both slink off.) How is it with you, Sir Walter? Look up, Sir, the villains are gone. He hears me not, and this deep disgrace of treachery in his son hath touched him even to the death. O most distuned, and distempered world, where sons talk their aged fathers into their graves! Garrulous and diseased world, and still empty, rotten and hollow talking world, where good men decay, states turn round in an endless mutability, and still for the worse, nothing is at a stay, nothing abides but vanity, chaotic vanity.—Brother, adieu!

There lies the parent stock which gave us life, Which I will see consign'd with tears to earth. Leave thou the solemn funeral rites to me, Grief and a true remorse abide with thee.

(Bears in the body.)



SCENE.—Another Part of the Forest.

MARGARET (alone) It was an error merely, and no crime, An unsuspecting openness in youth, That from his lips the fatal secret drew, Which should have slept like one of nature's mysteries, Unveil'd by any man. Well, he is dead! And what should Margaret do in the forest? O ill-starr'd John! O Woodvil, man enfeoffed to despair! Take thy farewell of peace. O never look again to see good days, Or close thy lids in comfortable nights, Or ever think a happy thought again, If what I have heard be true.— Forsaken of the world must Woodvil live, If he did tell these men. No tongue must speak to him, no tongue of man Salute him, when he wakes up in a morning; Or bid "good-night" to John. Who seeks to live In amity with thee, must for thy sake Abide the world's reproach. What then? Shall Margaret join the clamours of the world Against her friend? O undiscerning world, That cannot from misfortune separate guilt, No, not in thought! O never, never, John. Prepar'd to share the fortunes of her friend For better or for worse thy Margaret comes, To pour into thy wounds a healing love, And wake the memory of an ancient friendship. And pardon me, thou spirit of Sir Walter, Who, in compassion to the wretched living, Have but few tears to waste upon the dead.