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- Herausgeber: Strelbytskyy Multimedia Publishing
- Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023
Dive into the literary world of Charles Lamb and Mary Lamb with this comprehensive collection of their complete works, elegantly illustrated for a delightful reading experience. The anthology features timeless classics such as "Tales from Shakespeare," a captivating retelling of the Bard's plays designed for young readers. The collection also includes Charles Lamb's famous "Essays of Elia," a series of brilliant and personal essays that showcase his wit, humor, and keen observations on life. Readers will be transported to the enchanting realm of Greek mythology with "The Adventures of Ulysses," providing a unique perspective on Homer's epic. The illustrated edition enhances the literary journey, bringing these masterpieces to life with visual interpretations that complement the richness of the prose. Whether you're revisiting beloved tales or discovering the Lamb siblings' works for the first time, this collection is a treasure trove of literary gems that captures the essence of their enduring contribution to English literature.
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The Complete Works of Charles Lamb and Mary Lamb
Tales from Shakespeare, The Essays of Elia, The Adventures of Ulysses and others
Illustrated
Dive into the literary world of Charles Lamb and Mary Lamb with this comprehensive collection of their complete works, elegantly illustrated for a delightful reading experience. The anthology features timeless classics such as "Tales from Shakespeare," a captivating retelling of the Bard's plays designed for young readers.
The collection also includes Charles Lamb's famous "Essays of Elia," a series of brilliant and personal essays that showcase his wit, humor, and keen observations on life. Readers will be transported to the enchanting realm of Greek mythology with "The Adventures of Ulysses," providing a unique perspective on Homer's epic.
The illustrated edition enhances the literary journey, bringing these masterpieces to life with visual interpretations that complement the richness of the prose. Whether you're revisiting beloved tales or discovering the Lamb siblings' works for the first time, this collection is a treasure trove of literary gems that captures the essence of their enduring contribution to English literature.
THE COLLABORATIVE WORKS
JOHN WOODVIL
CHARACTERS
SIR WALTER WOODVIL.
JOHN. }
SIMON. } his sons.
LOVEL. }
GRAY. } Pretended friends of John.
SANDFORD. Sir Walter’s old steward.
MARGARET. Orphan ward of Sir Walter.
FOUR GENTLEMEN. John’s riotous companions.
SERVANTS.
SCENE — for the most part at Sir Walter’s mansion in DEVONSHIRE; at other times in the forest of SHERWOOD.
TIME — soon after the RESTORATION.
* * *
ACT THE FIRST
SCENE. — A Servants’ Apartment in Woodvil Hall.
Servants drinking — Time, the morning.
* * *
A Song by DANIEL
“When the King enjoys his own again.”
PETER
A delicate song. Where did’st learn it, fellow?
DANIEL Even there, where thou learnest thy oaths and thy politics — at our master’s table. — Where else should a serving-man pick up his poor accomplishments?
MARTIN Well spoken, Daniel. O rare Daniel! — his oaths and his politics! excellent!
FRANCIS
And where did’st pick up thy knavery, Daniel?
PETER
That came to him by inheritance. His family have supplied the shire of
Devon, time out of mind, with good thieves and bad serving-men. All of
his race have come into the world without their conscience.
MARTIN
Good thieves, and bad serving-men! Better and better. I marvel what
Daniel hath got to say in reply.
DANIEL I marvel more when thou wilt say any thing to the purpose, thou shallow serving-man, whose swiftest conceit carries thee no higher than to apprehend with difficulty the stale jests of us thy compeers. When was’t ever known to club thy own particular jest among us?
MARTIN
Most unkind Daniel, to speak such biting things of me!
FRANCIS See — if he hath not brought tears into the poor fellow’s eyes with the saltness of his rebuke.
DANIEL No offence, brother Martin — I meant none. ’Tis true, Heaven gives gifts, and with-holds them. It has been pleased to bestow upon me a nimble invention to the manufacture of a jest; and upon thee, Martin, an indifferent bad capacity to understand my meaning.
MARTIN
Is that all? I am content. Here’s my hand.
FRANCIS Well, I like a little innocent mirth myself, but never could endure bawdry.
DANIEL Quot homines tot sententiae.
MARTIN
And what is that?
DANIEL
’Tis Greek, and argues difference of opinion.
MARTIN
I hope there is none between us.
DANIEL
Here’s to thee, brother Martin. (Drinks.)
MARTIN
And to thee, Daniel. (Drinks.)
FRANCIS
And to thee, Peter. (Drinks.)
PETER
Thank you, Francis. And here’s to thee. (Drinks.)
MARTIN
I shall be fuddled anon.
DANIEL
And drunkenness I hold to be a very despicable vice.
ALL
O! a shocking vice. (They drink round.)
PETER
In as much as it taketh away the understanding.
DANIEL
And makes the eyes red.
PETER
And the tongue to stammer.
DANIEL
And to blab out secrets.
(During this conversation they continue drinking.)
PETER
Some men do not know an enemy from a friend when they are drunk.
DANIEL
Certainly sobriety is the health of the soul.
MARTIN
Now I know I am going to be drunk.
DANIEL
How can’st tell, dry-bones?
MARTIN
Because I begin to be melancholy. That’s always a sign.
FRANCIS
Take care of Martin, he’ll topple off his seat else.
(Martin drops asleep.)
PETER Times are greatly altered, since young master took upon himself the government of this household.
ALL
Greatly altered.
FRANCIS I think every thing be altered for the better since His Majesty’s blessed restoration.
PETER In Sir Walter’s days there was no encouragement given to good house-keeping.
ALL
None.
DANIEL
For instance, no possibility of getting drunk before two in the afternoon.
PETER
Every man his allowance of ale at breakfast — his quart!
ALL
A quart!! (in derision.)
DANIEL
Nothing left to our own sweet discretions.
PETER Whereby it may appear, we were treated more like beasts than what we were — discreet and reasonable serving-men.
ALL
Like beasts.
MARTIN (Opening his eyes.) Like beasts.
DANIEL
To sleep, wag-tail!
FRANCIS I marvel all this while where the old gentleman has found means to secrete himself. It seems no man has heard of him since the day of the King’s return. Can any tell why our young master, being favoured by the court, should not have interest to procure his father’s pardon?
DANIEL Marry, I think ’tis the obstinacy of the old Knight, that will not be beholden to the court for his safety.
MARTIN
Now that is wilful.
FRANCIS
But can any tell me the place of his concealment?
PETER
That cannot I; but I have my conjectures.
DANIEL
Two hundred pounds, as I hear, to the man that shall apprehend him.
FRANCIS
Well, I have my suspicions.
PETER
And so have I.
MARTIN
And I can keep a secret.
FRANCIS (To Peter.) Warwickshire you mean. (Aside.)
PETER
Perhaps not.
FRANCIS
Nearer perhaps.
PETER
I say nothing.
DANIEL
I hope there is none in this company would be mean enough to betray him.
ALL
O Lord, surely not. (They drink to Sir Walter’s safety.)
FRANCIS I have often wondered how our master came to be excepted by name in the late Act of Oblivion.
DANIEL
Shall I tell the reason?
ALL
Aye, do.
DANIEL
’Tis thought he is no great friend to the present happy establishment.
ALL
O! monstrous!
PETER Fellow servants, a thought strikes me. — Do we, or do we not, come under the penalties of the treason-act, by reason of our being privy to this man’s concealment.
ALL
Truly a sad consideration.
To them enters Sandford suddenly.
SANDFORD
You well-fed and unprofitable grooms,
Maintained for state, not use;
You lazy feasters at another’s cost,
That eat like maggots into an estate,
And do as little work,
Being indeed but foul excrescences,
And no just parts in a well-order’d family;
You base and rascal imitators,
Who act up to the height your master’s vices,
But cannot read his virtues in your bond:
Which of you, as I enter’d, spake of betraying?
Was it you, or you, or, thin-face, was it you?
MARTIN
Whom does he call thin-face?
SANDFORD
No prating, loon, but tell me who he was,
That I may brain the villain with my staff,
That seeks Sir Walter’s life?
You miserable men,
With minds more slavish than your slave’s estate,
Have you that noble bounty so forgot,
Which took you from the looms, and from the ploughs,
Which better had ye follow’d, fed ye, cloth’d ye,
And entertain’d ye in a worthy service,
Where your best wages was the world’s repute,
That thus ye seek his life, by whom ye live?
Have you forgot too,
How often in old times
Your drunken mirths have stunn’d day’s sober ears,
Carousing full cups to Sir Walter’s health? —
Whom now ye would betray, but that he lies
Out of the reach of your poor treacheries.
This learn from me,
Our master’s secret sleeps with trustier tongues,
Than will unlock themselves to carls like you.
Go, get you gone, you knaves. Who stirs? this staff
Shall teach you better manners else.
ALL
Well, we are going.
SANDFORD
And quickly too, ye had better, for I see
Young mistress Margaret coming this way.
(Exeunt all but Sandford.)
Enter Margaret, as in a fright, pursued by a Gentleman,
who, seeing Sandford, retires muttering a curse.
Sandford, Margaret.
SANDFORD
Good-morrow to my fair mistress. ’Twas a chance
I saw you, lady, so intent was I
On chiding hence these graceless serving-men,
Who cannot break their fast at morning meals
Without debauch and mis-timed riotings.
This house hath been a scene of nothing else
But atheist riot and profane excess,
Since my old master quitted all his rights here.
MARGARET
Each day I endure fresh insult from the scorn
Of Woodvil’s friends, the uncivil jests,
And free discourses, of the dissolute men,
That haunt this mansion, making me their mirth.
SANDFORD
Does my young master know of these affronts?
MARGARET
I cannot tell. Perhaps he has not been told.
Perhaps he might have seen them if he would.
I have known him more quick-sighted. Let that pass.
All things seem chang’d, 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
‘Twere 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,
Enquire 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 favourite 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 her alone.
As Margaret smil’d or frown’d John liv’d 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,
And that has wrought this seeming change in him,
That was by nature noble.
’Tis these court-plagues, that swarm about our house,
Have done the mischief, making his fancy giddy
With images of state, preferment, place,
Tainting his generous spirits with ambition.
MARGARET
I know not how it is;
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 sanction’d rather,
Both sanction’d and provok’d: 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.
SANDFORD
O lady, have a care
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 ’tis 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 ceas’d 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 perus’d 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,
’Tis 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.
MARGARET
That once this day and night were fairly past!
For then I’ll bid this house and love farewell;
Farewell, sweet Devon; farewell, lukewarm John;
For with the morning’s light will Margaret be gone.
Thanks, courteous Mr. Sandford. —
(Exeunt divers ways.)
ACT THE SECOND
SCENE. — An Apartment in Woodvil Hall.
John Woodvil — alone.
(Reading Parts of a Letter.)
“When Love grows cold, and indifference has usurped upon old Esteem, it is no marvel if the world begin to account that dependence, which hitherto has been esteemed honorable shelter. The course I have taken (in leaving this house, not easily wrought thereunto,) seemed to me best for the once-for-all releasing of yourself (who in times past have deserved well of me) from the now daily, and not-to-be-endured, tribute of forced love, and ill-dissembled reluctance of affection.
“MARGARET.”
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 shew 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 ’tis 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 apothegms
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
Being all in one.) For me, I am sure I have room here
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 lov’d her twenty years to come,
And still have kept my liking. But since ’tis 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. —
To him enters Lovel.
LOVEL Bless us, Woodvil! what is the matter? I protest, man, I thought you had been weeping.
WOODVIL Nothing is the matter, only the wench has forced some water into my eyes, which will quickly disband.
LOVEL
I cannot conceive you.
WOODVIL
Margaret is flown.
LOVEL
Upon what pretence?
WOODVIL Neglect on my part: which it seems she has had the wit to discover, maugre all my pains to conceal it.
LOVEL
Then, you confess the charge?
WOODVIL To say the truth, my love for her has of late stopt short on this side idolatry.
LOVEL
As all good Christians’ should, I think.
WOODVIL I am sure, I could have loved her still within the limits of warrantable love.
LOVEL
A kind of brotherly affection, I take it.
WOODVIL
We should have made excellent man and wife in time.
LOVEL A good old couple, when the snows fell, to crowd about a sea-coal fire, and talk over old matters.
WOODVIL While each should feel, what neither cared to acknowledge, that stories oft repeated may, at last, come to lose some of their grace by the repetition.
LOVEL Which both of you may yet live long enough to discover. For, take my word for it, Margaret is a bird that will come back to you without a lure.
WOODVIL Never, never, Lovel. Spite of my levity, with tears I confess it, she was a lady of most confirmed honour, of an unmatchable spirit, and determinate in all virtuous resolutions; not hasty to anticipate an affront, nor slow to feel, where just provocation was given.
LOVEL
What made you neglect her, then?
WOODVIL Mere levity and youthfulness of blood, a malady incident to young men, physicians call it caprice. Nothing else. He, that slighted her, knew her value: and ’tis odds, but, for thy sake, Margaret, John will yet go to his grave a bachelor. (A noise heard, as of one drunk and singing.)
LOVEL
Here comes one, that will quickly dissipate these humours.
(Enter one drunk.)
DRUNKEN MAN
Good-morrow to you, gentlemen. Mr. Lovel, I am your humble servant.
Honest Jack Woodvil, I will get drunk with you to-morrow.
WOODVIL
And why to-morrow, honest Mr. Freeman?
DRUNKEN MAN
I scent a traitor in that question. A beastly question. Is it not his
Majesty’s birth-day? the day, of all days in the year, on which King
Charles the second was graciously pleased to be born. (Sings) “Great
pity ’tis such days as those should come but once a year.”
LOVEL
Drunk in a morning! foh! how he stinks!
DRUNKEN MAN
And why not drunk in a morning? can’st tell, bully?
WOODVIL Because, being the sweet and tender infancy of the day, methinks, it should ill endure such early blightings.
DRUNKEN MAN I grant you, ’tis in some sort the youth and tender nonage of the day. Youth is bashful, and I give it a cup to encourage it. (Sings) “Ale that will make Grimalkin prate.” — At noon I drink for thirst, at night for fellowship, but, above all, I love to usher in the bashful morning under the auspices of a freshening stoop of liquor. (Sings) “Ale in a Saxon rumkin then makes valour burgeon in tall men.” — But, I crave pardon. I fear I keep that gentleman from serious thoughts. There be those that wait for me in the cellar.
WOODVIL
Who are they?
DRUNKEN MAN Gentlemen, my good friends, Cleveland, Delaval, and Truby. I know by this time they are all clamorous for me. (Exit, singing.)
WOODVIL
This keeping of open house acquaints a man with strange companions.
(Enter, at another door, Three calling for Harry Freeman.)
Harry Freeman, Harry Freeman.
He is not here. Let us go look for him.
Where is Freeman?
Where is Harry?
(Exeunt the Three, calling for Freeman.)
WOODVIL Did you ever see such gentry? (laughing). These are they that fatten on ale and tobacco in a morning, drink burnt brandy at noon to promote digestion, and piously conclude with quart bumpers after supper, to prove their loyalty.
LOVEL
Come, shall we adjourn to the Tennis Court?
WOODVIL No, you shall go with me into the gallery, where I will shew you the Vandyke I have purchased. “The late King taking leave of his children.”
LOVEL
I will but adjust my dress, and attend you. (Exit Lovel.)
JOHN WOODVIL (alone)
Now Universal England getteth drunk
For joy that Charles, her monarch, is restored:
And she, that sometime wore a saintly mask,
The stale-grown vizor from her face doth pluck,
And weareth now a suit of morris bells,
With which she jingling goes through all her towns and villages.
The baffled factions in their houses sculk:
The common-wealthsman, and state machinist,
The cropt fanatic, and fifth-monarchy-man,
Who heareth of these visionaries now?
They and their dreams have ended. Fools do sing,
Where good men yield God thanks; but politic spirits,
Who live by observation, note these changes
Of the popular mind, and thereby serve their ends.
Then why not I? What’s Charles to me, or Oliver,
But as my own advancement hangs on one of them?
I to myself am chief. — I know,
Some shallow mouths cry out, that I am smit
With the gauds and shew of state, the point of place,
And trick of precedence, the ducks, and nods,
Which weak minds pay to rank. ’Tis not to sit
In place of worship at the royal masques,
Their pastimes, plays, and Whitehall banquetings,
For none of these,
Nor yet to be seen whispering with some great one,
Do I affect the favours of the court.
I would be great, for greatness hath great power,
And that’s the fruit I reach at. —
Great spirits ask great play-room. Who could sit,
With these prophetic swellings in my breast,
That prick and goad me on, and never cease,
To the fortunes something tells me I was born to?
Who, with such monitors within to stir him,
Would sit him down, with lazy arms across,
A unit, a thing without a name in the state,
A something to be govern’d, not to govern,
A fishing, hawking, hunting, country gentleman?
(Exit.)
SCENE. — Sherwood Forest.
SIR WALTER WOODVIL. SIMON WOODVIL. (Disguised as Frenchmen.)
SIR WALTER
How fares my boy, Simon, my youngest born,
My hope, my pride, young Woodvil, speak to me?
Some grief untold weighs heavy at thy heart:
I know it by thy alter’d cheer of late.
Thinkest, thy brother plays thy father false?
It is a mad and thriftless prodigal,
Grown proud upon the favours of the court;
Court manners, and court fashions, he affects,
And in the heat and uncheck’d blood of youth,
Harbours a company of riotous men,
All hot, and young, court-seekers, like himself,
Most skilful to devour a patrimony;
And these have eat into my old estates,
And these have drain’d thy father’s cellars dry;
But these so common faults of youth not named,
(Things which themselves outgrow, left to themselves,)
I know no quality that stains his honor.
My life upon his faith and noble mind,
Son John could never play thy father false.
SIMON
I never thought but nobly of my brother,
Touching his honor and fidelity.
Still I could wish him charier of his person,
And of his time more frugal, than to spend
In riotous living, graceless society,
And mirth unpalatable, hours better employ’d
(With those persuasive graces nature lent him)
In fervent pleadings for a father’s life.
SIR WALTER
I would not owe my life to a jealous court,
Whose shallow policy I know it is,
On some reluctant acts of prudent mercy,
(Not voluntary, but extorted by the times,
In the first tremblings of new-fixed power,
And recollection smarting from old wounds,)
On these to build a spurious popularity.
Unknowing what free grace or mercy mean,
They fear to punish, therefore do they pardon.
For this cause have I oft forbid my son,
By letters, overtures, open solicitings,
Or closet-tamperings, by gold or fee,
To beg or bargain with the court for my life.
SIMON
And John has ta’en you, father, at your word,
True to the letter of his paternal charge.
SIR WALTER
Well, my good cause, and my good conscience, boy,
Shall be for sons to me, if John prove false.
Men die but once, and the opportunity
Of a noble death is not an every-day fortune:
It is a gift which noble spirits pray for.
SIMON
I would 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 shew of bravery for ambitious ends.
He drinks, for ’tis the humour of the court,
And drink may one day wrest the secret from him,
And pluck you from your hiding place in the sequel.
SIR WALTER
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 WALTER
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 WALTER
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, rumours and popular noises,
Books, creeds, opinions, prejudices national,
Humours 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 WALTER
What pretty boy have we here?
MARGARET
Bon jour, messieurs. Ye have handsome English faces,
I should have ta’en you else for other two,
I came to seek in the forest.
SIR WALTER
Who are they?
MARGARET
A gallant brace of Frenchmen, curled monsieurs,
That, men say, haunt these woods, affecting privacy,
More than the manner of their countrymen.
SIMON
We have here a wonder.
The face is Margaret’s face.
SIR WALTER
The face is Margaret’s, but the dress the same
My Stephen sometimes wore.
(To Margaret)
Suppose us them; whom do men say we are?
Or know you what you seek?
MARGARET
A worthy pair of exiles,
Two whom the politics of state revenge,
In final issue of long civil broils,
Have houseless driven from your native France,
To wander idle in these English woods,
Where now ye live; most part
Thinking on home, and all the joys of France,
Where grows the purple vine.
SIR WALTER
These woods, young stranger,
And grassy pastures, which the slim deer loves,
Are they less beauteous than the land of France,
Where grows the purple vine?
MARGARET
I cannot tell.
To an indifferent eye both shew alike.
’Tis not the scene,
But all familiar objects in the scene,
Which now ye miss, that constitute a difference.
Ye had a country, exiles, ye have none now;
Friends had ye, and much wealth, ye now have nothing;
Our manners, laws, our customs, all are foreign to you,
I know ye loathe them, cannot learn them readily;
And there is reason, exiles, ye should love
Our English earth less than your land of France,
Where grows the purple vine; where all delights grow,
Old custom has made pleasant.
SIR WALTER
You, that are read
So deeply in our story, what are you?
MARGARET
A bare adventurer; in brief a woman,
That put strange garments on, and came thus far
To seek an ancient friend:
And having spent her stock of idle words,
And feeling some tears coming,
Hastes now to clasp Sir Walter Woodvil’s knees,
And beg a boon for Margaret, his poor ward. (Kneeling.)
SIR WALTER
Not at my feet, Margaret, not at my feet.
MARGARET
Yes, till her suit is answer’d.
SIR WALTER
Name it.
MARGARET
A little boon, and yet so great a grace,
She fears to ask it.
SIR WALTER
Some riddle, Margaret?
MARGARET
No riddle, but a plain request.
SIR WALTER
Name it.
MARGARET
Free liberty of Sherwood,
And leave to take her lot with you in the forest.
SIR WALTER
A scant petition, Margaret, but take it,
Seal’d with an old man’s tears. —
Rise, daughter of Sir Rowland.
(Addresses them both.)
O you most worthy,
You constant followers of a man proscribed,
Following poor misery in the throat of danger;
Fast servitors to craz’d and penniless poverty,
Serving poor poverty without hope of gain;
Kind children of a sire unfortunate;
Green clinging tendrils round a trunk decay’d,
Which needs must bring on you timeless decay;
Fair living forms to a dead carcase join’d; —
What shall I say?
Better the dead were gather’d to the dead,
Than death and life in disproportion meet. —
Go, seek your fortunes, children. —
SIMON
Why, whither should we go?
SIR WALTER
You to the Court, where now your brother John
Commits a rape on Fortune.
SIMON
Luck to John!
A light-heel’d strumpet, when the sport is done.
SIR WALTER
You to the sweet society of your equals,
Where the world’s fashion smiles on youth and beauty.
MARGARET
Where young men’s flatteries cozen young maids’ beauty,
There pride oft gets the vantage hand of duty,
There sweet humility withers.
SIMON
Mistress Margaret,
How fared my brother John, when you left Devon?
MARGARET
John was well, Sir.
SIMON
’Tis now nine months almost,
Since I saw home. What new friends has John made?
Or keeps he his first love? — I did suspect
Some foul disloyalty. Now do I know,
John has prov’d false to her, for Margaret weeps.
It is a scurvy brother.
SIR WALTER
Fie upon it.
All men are false, I think. The date of love
Is out, expired, its stories all grown stale,
O’erpast, forgotten, like an antique tale
Of Hero and Leander.
SIMON I have known some men that are too general-contemplative for the narrow passion. I am in some sort a general lover.
MARGARET In the name of the boy God, who plays at hood-man-blind with the Muses, and cares not whom he catches: what is it you love?
SIMON
Simply, all things that live,
From the crook’d worm to man’s imperial form,
And God-resembling likeness. The poor fly,
That makes short holyday in the sun beam,
And dies by some child’s hand. The feeble bird
With little wings, yet greatly venturous
In the upper sky. The fish in th’ other element,
That knows no touch of eloquence. What else?
Yon tall and elegant stag,
Who paints a dancing shadow of his horns
In the water, where he drinks.
MARGARET
I myself love all these things, yet so as with a difference: —
for example, some animals better than others, some men
rather than other men; the nightingale before the cuckoo, the
swift and graceful palfrey before the slow and asinine mule.
Your humour goes to confound all qualities.
What sports do you use in the forest? —
SIMON
Not many; some few, as thus: —
To see the sun to bed, and to arise,
Like some hot amourist with glowing eyes,
Bursting the lazy bands of sleep that bound him,
With all his fires and travelling glories round him.
Sometimes the moon on soft night clouds to rest,
Like beauty nestling in a young man’s breast,
And all the winking stars, her handmaids, keep
Admiring silence, while those lovers sleep.
Sometimes outstretcht, in very idleness,
Nought doing, saying little, thinking less,
To view the leaves, thin dancers upon air,
Go eddying round; and small birds, how they fare,
When mother Autumn fills their beaks with corn,
Filch’d from the careless Amalthea’s horn;
And how the woods berries and worms provide
Without their pains, when earth has nought beside
To answer their small wants.
To view the graceful deer come tripping by,
Then stop, and gaze, then turn, they know not why,
Like bashful younkers in society.
To mark the structure of a plant or tree,
And all fair things of earth, how fair they be.
MARGARET (smiling)
And, afterwards them paint in simile.
SIR WALTER
Mistress Margaret will have need of some refreshment.
Please you, we have some poor viands within.
MARGARET
Indeed I stand in need of them.
SIR WALTER
Under the shade of a thick-spreading tree,
Upon the grass, no better carpeting,
We’ll eat our noon-tide meal; and, dinner done,
One of us shall repair to Nottingham,
To seek some safe night-lodging in the town,
Where you may sleep, while here with us you dwell,
By day, in the forest, expecting better times,
And gentler habitations, noble Margaret.
SIMON
Allons, young Frenchman —
MARGARET
Allons, Sir Englishman. The time has been,
I’ve studied love-lays in the English tongue,
And been enamour’d of rare poesy:
Which now I must unlearn. Henceforth,
Sweet mother-tongue, old English speech, adieu;
For Margaret has got new name and language new.
(Exeunt.)
ACT THE THIRD
SCENE. — An Apartment of State in Woodvil Hall — Cavaliers drinking.
JOHN WOODVIL, LOVEL, GRAY, and four more.
JOHN
More mirth, I beseech you, gentlemen — Mr. Gray, you are not merry. —
GRAY More wine, say I, and mirth shall ensue in course. What! we have not yet above three half-pints a man to answer for. Brevity is the soul of drinking, as of wit. Despatch, I say. More wine. (Fills.)
FIRST GENTLEMAN I entreat you, let there be some order, some method, in our drinkings. I love to lose my reason with my eyes open, to commit the deed of drunkenness with forethought and deliberation. I love to feel the fumes of the liquor gathering here, like clouds.
SECOND GENTLEMAN And I am for plunging into madness at once. Damn order, and method, and steps, and degrees, that he speaks of. Let confusion have her legitimate work.
LOVEL I marvel why the poets, who, of all men, methinks, should possess the hottest livers, and most empyreal fancies, should affect to see such virtues in cold water.
GRAY
Virtue in cold water! ha! ha! ha! —
JOHN Because your poet-born hath an internal wine, richer than lippara or canaries, yet uncrushed from any grapes of earth, unpressed in mortal wine-presses.
THIRD GENTLEMAN
What may be the name of this wine?
JOHN It hath as many names as qualities. It is denominated indifferently, wit, conceit, invention, inspiration, but its most royal and comprehensive name is fancy.
THIRD GENTLEMAN
And where keeps he this sovereign liquor?
JOHN Its cellars are in the brain, whence your true poet deriveth intoxication at will; while his animal spirits, catching a pride from the quality and neighbourhood of their noble relative, the brain, refuse to be sustained by wines and fermentations of earth.
THIRD GENTLEMAN
But is your poet-born alway tipsy with this liquor?
JOHN He hath his stoopings and reposes; but his proper element is the sky, and in the suburbs of the empyrean.
THIRD GENTLEMAN Is your wine-intellectual so exquisite? henceforth, I, a man of plain conceit, will, in all humility, content my mind with canaries.
FOURTH GENTLEMAN I am for a song or a catch. When will the catches come on, the sweet wicked catches?
JOHN
They cannot be introduced with propriety before midnight. Every man must
commit his twenty bumpers first. We are not yet well roused. Frank
Lovel, the glass stands with you.
LOVEL
Gentlemen, the Duke. (Fills.)
ALL
The Duke. (They drink.)
GRAY
Can any tell, why his Grace, being a Papist —
JOHN Pshaw! we will have no questions of state now. Is not this his Majesty’s birth-day?
GRAY
What follows?
JOHN
That every man should sing, and be joyful, and ask no questions.
SECOND GENTLEMAN
Damn politics, they spoil drinking.
THIRD GENTLEMAN
For certain,’tis a blessed monarchy.
SECOND GENTLEMAN The cursed fanatic days we have seen! The times have been when swearing was out of fashion.
THIRD GENTLEMAN
And drinking.
FIRST GENTLEMAN
And wenching.
GRAY The cursed yeas and forsooths, which we have heard uttered, when a man could not rap out an innocent oath, but strait the air was thought to be infected.
LOVEL ’Twas a pleasant trick of the saint, which that trim puritan Swear-not-at-all Smooth-speech used, when his spouse chid him with an oath for committing with his servant-maid, to cause his house to be fumigated with burnt brandy, and ends of scripture, to disperse the devil’s breath, as he termed it.
ALL
Ha! ha! ha!
GRAY But ’twas pleasanter, when the other saint Resist-the-devil- and-he-will-flee-from-thee Pure-man was overtaken in the act, to plead an illusio visûs, and maintain his sanctity upon a supposed power in the adversary to counterfeit the shapes of things.
ALL
Ha! ha! ha!
JOHN Another round, and then let every man devise what trick he can in his fancy, for the better manifesting our loyalty this day.
GRAY
Shall we hang a puritan?
JOHN
No, that has been done already in Coleman-Street.
SECOND GENTLEMAN
Or fire a conventicle?
JOHN
That is stale too.
THIRD GENTLEMAN
Or burn the assembly’s catechism?
FOURTH GENTLEMAN
Or drink the king’s health, every man standing upon his head naked?
JOHN (to Lovel)
We have here some pleasant madness.
THIRD GENTLEMAN Who shall pledge me in a pint bumper, while we drink to the king upon our knees?
LOVEL
Why on our knees, Cavalier?
JOHN (smiling) For more devotion, to be sure. (To a servant.) Sirrah, fetch the gilt goblets.
(The goblets are brought. They drink the king’s health, kneeling. A shout of general approbation following the first appearance of the goblets.)
JOHN We have here the unchecked virtues of the grape. How the vapours curl upwards! It were a life of gods to dwell in such an element: to see, and hear, and talk brave things. Now fie upon these casual potations. That a man’s most exalted reason should depend upon the ignoble fermenting of a fruit, which sparrows pluck at as well as we!
GRAY (aside to Lovel)
Observe how he is ravished.
LOVEL
Vanity and gay thoughts of wine do meet in him and engender madness.
(While the rest are engaged in a wild kind of talk, John advances to the front of the stage and soliloquises.)
JOHN
My spirits turn to fire, they mount so fast.
My joys are turbulent, my hopes shew like fruition.
These high and gusty relishes of life, sure,
Have no allayings of mortality in them.
I am too hot now and o’ercapable,
For the tedious processes, and creeping wisdom,
Of human acts, and enterprizes of a man.
I want some seasonings of adversity,
Some strokes of the old mortifier Calamity,
To take these swellings down, divines call vanity.
FIRST GENTLEMAN
Mr. Woodvil, Mr. Woodvil.
SECOND GENTLEMAN
Where is Woodvil?
GRAY Let him alone. I have seen him in these lunes before. His abstractions must not taint the good mirth.
JOHN (continuing to soliloquize)
O for some friend now,
To conceal nothing from, to have no secrets.
How fine and noble a thing is confidence,
How reasonable too, and almost godlike!
Fast cement of fast friends, band of society,
Old natural go-between in the world’s business,
Where civil life and order, wanting this cement,
Would presently rush back
Into the pristine state of singularity,
And each man stand alone.
(A Servant enters.) Gentlemen, the fire-works are ready.
FIRST GENTLEMAN
What be they?
LOVEL The work of London artists, which our host has provided in honour of this day.
SECOND GENTLEMAN
‘Sdeath, who would part with his wine for a rocket?
LOVEL Why truly, gentlemen, as our kind host has been at the pains to provide this spectacle, we can do no less than be present at it. It will not take up much time. Every man may return fresh and thirsting to his liquor.
THIRD GENTLEMAN
There is reason in what he says.
SECOND GENTLEMAN
Charge on then, bottle in hand. There’s husbandry in that.
(They go out, singing. Only Level remains, who observes Woodvil.)
JOHN (still talking to himself)
This Lovel here’s of a tough honesty,
Would put the rack to the proof. He is not of that sort,
Which haunt my house, snorting the liquors,
And when their wisdoms are afloat with wine,
Spend vows as fast as vapours, which go off
Even with the fumes, their fathers. He is one,
Whose sober morning actions
Shame not his o’ernight’s promises;
Talks little, flatters less, and makes no promises;
Why this is he, whom the dark-wisdom’d fate
Might trust her counsels of predestination with,
And the world be no loser.
Why should I fear this man?
(Seeing Lovel.)
Where is the company gone?
LOVEL To see the fire-works, where you will be expected to follow. But I perceive you are better engaged.
JOHN
I have been meditating this half-hour
On all the properties of a brave friendship,
The mysteries that are in it, the noble uses,
Its limits withal, and its nice boundaries.
Exempli gratia, how far a man
May lawfully forswear himself for his friend;
What quantity of lies, some of them brave ones,
He may lawfully incur in a friend’s behalf;
What oaths, blood-crimes, hereditary quarrels,
Night brawls, fierce words, and duels in the morning,
He need not stick at, to maintain his friend’s honor, or his cause.
LOVEL
I think many men would die for their friends.
JOHN
Death! why ’tis nothing. We go to it for sport,
To gain a name, or purse, or please a sullen humour,
When one has worn his fortune’s livery threadbare,
Or his spleen’d mistress frowns. Husbands will venture on it,
To cure the hot fits and cold shakings of jealousy.
A friend, sir, must do more.
LOVEL
Can he do more than die?
JOHN
To serve a friend this he may do. Pray mark me.
Having a law within (great spirits feel one)
He cannot, ought not to be bound by any
Positive laws or ord’nances extern,
But may reject all these: by the law of friendship
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 relax,
The marriage of a friend, or a wife’s birth-day.
LOVEL
How much, sir, may a man with safety drink? (Smiling.)
JOHN
Sir, three half pints a day is reasonable;
I care not if you never exceed that quantity.
LOVEL
I shall observe it;
On holidays two quarts.
JOHN
Or stay; you keep no wench?
LOVEL
Ha!
JOHN
No painted mistress for your private hours?
You keep no whore, sir?
LOVEL
What does he mean?
JOHN
Who for a close embrace, a toy of sin,
And amorous praising of your worship’s breath,
In rosy junction of four melting lips,
Can kiss out secrets from you?
LOVEL
How strange this passionate behaviour shews in you!
Sure you think me some weak one.
JOHN
Pray pardon me some fears.
You have now the pledge of a dear father’s life.
I am a son — would fain be thought a loving one;
You may allow me some fears: do not despise me,
If, in a posture foreign to my spirit,
And by our well-knit friendship I conjure you,
Touch not Sir Walter’s life. (Kneels.)
You see these tears. My father’s an old man.
Pray let him live.
LOVEL
I must be bold to tell you, these new freedoms
Shew most unhandsome in you.
JOHN (rising)
Ha! do you say so?
Sure, you are not grown proud upon my secret!
Ah! now I see it plain. He would be babbling.
No doubt a garrulous and hard-fac’d traitor —
But I’ll not give you leave. (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 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 noble 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 compassion to the wretched living,
Have but few tears to waste upon the dead.
SCENE. — Woodvil Hall.
SANDFORD. MARGARET.
(As from a Journey.)
SANDFORD The violence of the sudden mischance hath so wrought in him, who by nature is allied to nothing less than a self-debasing humour of dejection, that I have never seen any thing more changed and spirit-broken. He hath, with a peremptory resolution, dismissed the partners of his riots and late hours, denied his house and person to their most earnest solicitings, and will be seen by none. He keeps ever alone, and his grief (which is solitary) does not so much seem to possess and govern in him, as it is by him, with a wilfulness of most manifest affection, entertained and cherished.
MARGARET
How bears he up against the common rumour?
SANDFORD With a strange indifference, which whosoever dives not into the niceness of his sorrow might mistake for obdurate and insensate. Yet are the wings of his pride for ever clipt; and yet a virtuous predominance of filial grief is so ever uppermost, that you may discover his thoughts less troubled with conjecturing what living opinions will say, and judge of his deeds, than absorbed and buried with the dead, whom his indiscretion made so.
MARGARET I knew a greatness ever to be resident in him, to which the admiring eyes of men should look up even in the declining and bankrupt state of his pride. Fain would I see him, fain talk with him; but that a sense of respect, which is violated, when without deliberation we press into the society of the unhappy, checks and holds me back. How, think you, he would bear my presence?
SANDFORD As of an assured friend, whom in the forgetfulness of his fortunes he past by. See him you must; but not to-night. The newness of the sight shall move the bitterest compunction and the truest remorse; but afterwards, trust me, dear lady, the happiest effects of a returning peace, and a gracious comfort, to him, to you, and all of us.
MARGARET I think he would not deny me. He hath ere this received farewell letters from his brother, who hath taken a resolution to estrange himself, for a time, from country, friends, and kindred, and to seek occupation for his sad thoughts in travelling in foreign places, where sights remote and extern to himself may draw from him kindly and not painful ruminations.
SANDFORD I was present at the receipt of the letter. The contents seemed to affect him, for a moment, with a more lively passion of grief than he has at any time outwardly shewn. He wept with many tears (which I had not before noted in him) and appeared to be touched with a sense as of some unkindness; but the cause of their sad separation and divorce quickly recurring, he presently returned to his former inwardness of suffering.
MARGARET The reproach of his brother’s presence at this hour should have been a weight more than could be sustained by his already oppressed and sinking spirit. — Meditating upon these intricate and wide-spread sorrows, hath brought a heaviness upon me, as of sleep. How goes the night?
SANDFORD An hour past sun-set. You shall first refresh your limbs (tired with travel) with meats and some cordial wine, and then betake your no less wearied mind to repose.
MARGARET
A good rest to us all.
SANDFORD
Thanks, lady.
ACT THE FIFTH
JOHN WOODVIL (dressing).
JOHN
How beautiful, (handling his mourning)
And comely do these mourning garments shew!
Sure Grief hath set his sacred impress here,
To claim the world’s respect! they note so feelingly
By outward types the serious man within. —
Alas! what part or portion can I claim
In all the decencies of virtuous sorrow,
Which other mourners use? as namely,
This black attire, abstraction from society,
Good thoughts, and frequent sighs, and seldom smiles,
A cleaving sadness native to the brow,
All sweet condolements of like-grieved friends,
(That steal away the sense of loss almost)
Men’s pity, and good offices
Which enemies themselves do for us then,
Putting their hostile disposition off,
As we put off our high thoughts and proud looks.
(Pauses, and observes the pictures.)
These pictures must be taken down:
The portraitures of our most antient family
For nigh three hundred years! How have I listen’d,
To hear Sir Walter, with an old man’s pride,
Holding me in his arms, a prating boy,
And pointing to the pictures where they hung,
Repeat by course their worthy histories,
(As Hugh de Widville, Walter, first of the name,
