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 n.o.ble 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 compa.s.sion to the wretched living, Have but few tears to waste upon the dead.