All things seem changed, 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.

'T were 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,
Inquire 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 favorite 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 ber alone.
As Margaret smiled or frown'd John lived 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,

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 sanctioned rather,
Both sanction'd and provoked: 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.

O lady, have a care

SANDFORD.

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 't is 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 ceased 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 perused 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,

"T is 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.

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 show 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 't is 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 apophthegms
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

Mere levity and youthfulness of blood, a malady incident to young men physicians call it caprice.

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 loved her twenty years to come,
And still have kept my liking. But since 't is 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.--

and 't is odds, but, for thy sake, Margaret, John will yet go to his grave a bachelor.

[A noise heard, as of one drunk and singing.