[_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 snuffbox 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.

_G