d 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 show of bravery for ambitious ends.
He drinks, for 'tis the humor of the court,
And drink may one day wrest the secret from him,
And pluck you from your hiding-place in the sequel.

_Sir W_. 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 W_. 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 W_. 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, rumors and popular noises,
Books, creeds, opinions, prejudices national,
Humors 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 W_. What pretty boy have we here?

_Marg_. _Bon jour, messieurs_. Ye have handsome English faces,

I should have ta'en ye else for other two,
I came to seek in the forest.

_Sir W_. Who are they?

_Marg_. A gallant brace of Frenchmen, curl'd monsieurs,
That men say, haunt these woods, affecting privacy,
More than the manner of their countrymen.

_Simon_. We have here