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