ACT I.

Here comes Little John.—

Well ſung and ſtrongly, my blithe lads and hearty laſſes—like true out-laws who lighten the heavy purſes of the rich with clear conſciences, ſhare your booty with the poor, and waſh down repentance with cups of nappy brown ale.

Girls, let us retire.

Why are we called out-laws, John?

I'll tell you. Laws were made to puniſh rogues; but we being honeſt fellows, are put out of the law.

Then honeſty and law are not found together.

True; and therefore being honeſt we live againſt the law; and yet, with due deference to the learned profeſſion, we live honeſtly as thoſe who live by the law.

Right, John.

Mark—We kill the King's deer, and are called thieves; but who are the greateſt thieves, we who feed on royal veniſon, or thoſe who prey upon his majeſty's liege ſubjects? Stand cloſe and attend to me lads—our captain, the brave Earl of Huntingdon, has a call upon our ſervice, there⯑fore every man muſt look to his arms; let your quivers be well ſtocked with arrows, and ſee that your bow-ſtrings are all ſound. This night we ſally forth on an expedition.

What is the cauſe?

Our captain you all know was betrothed to the fair Clorinda, niece to Baron Fitz Herbert. You alſo know, that on the very eve of marriage he was ordered from court.

True.

Now this was all owing to the biſhop of Hereford, who maliciouſly poiſoned the royal ear, and the inſtant the noble Huntingdon became an object of the King's diſpleaſure, the whole court tribe, even the very caterpillars who fed upon his bounty avoided him as if he was contagious.

But we, John, ſtuck to him, and will while we have life.

Give me your hand—a man never truly knows his friends till misfortune overtakes him. But mark—Our leader's heart is fixed upon the lady Clorinda, and ſhe loves him with equal ar⯑dour; but the proud Baron, her uncle, keeps her locked up, and prevents all intercourſe between them.

Why not attack the Baron's caſtle and carry her off by force—

That is the buſineſs you are to be employed on—we will execute it this very night; but not a word to Robin, voluntary ſervice is moſt valuable, and to-morrow, I truſt, we ſhall be able to preſent his miſtreſs to him—

—Hark! Scar⯑let's horn.

Brave Scarlet, welcome!—Who have we got here?

We diſcovered a company of men, within the purlieus of the Foreſt, on their way we ſuppoſe to the aſſizes at Nottingham.

On their way to the aſſizes! O the un⯑conſcionable dogs! with intent no doubt to ſue their honeſt debtors.

They fled, and all eſcaped but this fel⯑low.

What are you, ſirrah?

A tinker and a fool, but no knave.

Well diſtinguiſhed; for though all knaves are fools, all fools are not knaves. Where do you reſide, tinker?

Where I ſtand. I carry my ſhop on my back, as the ſnail carries his houſe; am always at home, yet am a traveller.

A fool a traveller! but that is no new caſe, many of our travellers having proved them⯑ſelves fools. Let the tinker be free. But ſay, lads, what plunder have you brought in?

Not much. We met a monk, who de⯑nied having caſh, but Robin forced him to pray to his titular ſaint for ſome, and after five minutes devo⯑tion, on ſearching his reverence, we found twenty broad pieces in his hood; but the money did not remain long with us: falling with one of the biſhop of Hereford's tenants, who was flying from his ha⯑bitation, being unable to pay his rent, Robin, with his accuſtomed humanity, made him a pre⯑ſent of the Friar's tribute.

Perhaps this fellow is an impoſtor, ſo open his pack

: A good heart may lie in a deformed body; a diamond may be concealed in a dunghill, and why not gold or ſilver in this budget.

Spare my property! my budget con⯑tains my ways and means!

Out of the budget, or I'll knock you down.

What, ſtrike a man in his own ſhop?

There goes Robin's blaſt and calls me— Away lads; reinſtate maſter Tinker in poſſeſſion of his ſhop and moveables, and give the poor de⯑vil ſome refreſhment.

Lead away my merry folk, and I'll dance after you.

Well done, John!

Well laid on, Friar!

Let no man ſtrike who loves me. Friar, you have beaten me ſoundly; I retain the muſic of your fiddle-ſtick in both my ears.—O heaven preſerve us from the heavy arm of Mother Church!

Have I done you juſtice?

Yes, juſtice with a vengeance!—To give the devil his due, this infernal divine fights with Chriſtian fortitude.—The laſt blow ſtaggered my conſcience.—But will you live among us, prieſt?

With all my heart, upon this condition, that if you need a chaplain, I may ſerve you and your friends in that capacity.

Will you be true?

To the laſt moment I will be true to you—will attend to ſhrive Little John, even at the gallows.

I thank your charity, reverend Sir; and, as one good turn deſerves another, be aſſured you ſhall not want a friend to ſhake hands with at the gibbet. Our chaplain you ſhall be; a confeſſor, my hearts, will make us new men every day, by abſolving us in the morning for our treſpaſſes over-night.—But we muſt not have too much devotion.

Never fear—Though I wear the habit of the church, I am no devotee; I love my friends, pray for my enemies, and my principal ſtudy is the art of living well with all mankind.

And women-kind, I preſume—

Who ordained you a confeſſor?—But in truth, though I have taken the vow of celibacy, I reprobate a ſingle life among the laity, and think that were the ſuperfluous productions of nature to be pruned away, the buſineſs ſhould commence by lopping off old maids and fuſty batchelors.

Right—they are a malignant generation, and, like the rattleſnake, increaſe in noiſe and venom with their years. To what monaſtery do you belong?

To none; I am juſt returned from a cru⯑ſade.

I thought ſo, for you laid on like a Turk.

A ſtranger has ſurrendered to one of our out-poſts, and is coming this way. He de⯑mands an audience with Robin Hood immedi⯑ately, and ſends his ſword.

Conduct the ſtranger before us—and ſee, maſter Bowman, take care of this honeſt Friar; let him have liquor to moiſten the clay, for I ſee by his ruby noſe, he is a wet ſoul with a dry liver.

Go on, my lad; and remember your or⯑ders—let me have liquor plenty to moiſten the clay.—

Well chaunted, and merrily; a goodly pſalm-ſinger: yet his notes would ſound better in a tavern than a cathedral.

I have told you my buſineſs is with Robin Hood only.

That may be, but you cannot ſee the great Robin, till firſt examined by Little John. Who are you, Sir?

A gentleman, courteous Sir, who wiſhes to be conſidered your humble ſervant.

Fairly ſpoken—An humble ſervant is good, becauſe it is a rarity, moſt ſervants. aſſum⯑ing more impudence than their maſters. Now Gentleman is bad; though it is a good title to travel with, or live by: for every fellow, who has neither property or profeſſion, and is too lazy to work, begs or plunders under the character of Gentleman.

I agree with you, Sir, and the country is overrun with ſuch vermin.

Here comes our leader—

Noble Captain, this gentleman, who ſays he is my humble ſervant, deſires to ſpeak with you.

I like his preſence.—You appear a ſoldier, Sir.—Return him his ſword.

It is my way to meet every man on equal terms; and if you come for a trial of ſkill, my bow-bearer will ſee fair play.

Never doubt my honor; and if you beat Robin to-day, John will indulge you with a bout to-morrow.

I would ſpeak in private.

Then I withdraw; and, in truth, I am not in good fighting order—Stella has run away with my heart; and this Friar has raiſed ſo many knobs upon my head, it feels like a bunch of grapes.

Now, Sir, what are your commands?

Courage and generoſity are congenial qualities: I am confident you poſſeſs the firſt, and doubt not but I ſhall experience the latter.

You ſeem to ſpeak from a brave and candid ſoul. Whatever my men have taken ſhall be returned.

I only wiſh them to reſtore a hermit's garment. You ſee before you an unhappy man, ſcorned by the woman he loves, urged by deſpair, yet doating on the cauſe of his miſery. O heaven! is there no comfort for me?

Your ſorrows, breathing the genuine feelings of an injured mind, engage my friendſhip. Is it your intention to join our party? You may command here every thing conducive to your eaſe.

You have my thanks; but I muſt re⯑fuſe your generous offer. My mind, long la⯑bouring with grief, has determined upon retire⯑ment: underſtanding there is a hermitage in the Foreſt, lately occupied by a holy man, now dead; there, loſt to the world, I wiſh to become his me⯑lancholy ſucceſſor, and pine out a life of wretched⯑neſs.

May I enquire who you are?

My name is Edwin, ſon to Sir Launcelot Barnard; I am juſt returned from Paleſtine, where for three years ſerving under a borrowed name, I ſought for death in battle.

Command my ſervices. I knew your father well, and often under him repelled my [15] country's foes. The ingratitude of thoſe I loved and ſerved has driven me into this Foreſt, an out⯑law —but no more of that—though rough in manners, and poſſeſſing aſperity againſt the proud, the avaricious, and the luxuriant, you ſhall find me not ungenerous to the diſtreſſed.

'Tis to your generoſity I apply; the ſimplicity of your manners I admire, and deſpiſe the ſuperficial civilities of life: the mind of a ſol⯑dier, like his ſword, is more valuable for its tem⯑per than its poliſh.

Henceforward we are friends; but come, let us in and drink a pledge to future amity. Ed⯑win your hand

I feel for you. Alas! I am myſelf a lover, and though beloved in return, ſuffer under all the excruciating pangs of abſence.

I am certain ſomething diſtreſſes you; tell me, my dear ſiſter, what is it? I your bro⯑ther and friend, have a right to queſtion you: believe me, Stella, few women would fall into error, if they made confidants of their male rela⯑tions.

I do believe you love me, brother; and I hope you have no reaſon to complain of my wanting affection. Let me aſk you a queſtion; what think you of Will Scarlet?

That, in manners, he is a vain fop; and, in his heart, a cunning deceiver. Like an over-ripe pear, fair without, but bad within.

You are right, brother, he is a fop; for when he brings home poſies from the meadows, he always culls the ſweeteſt and prettieſt to orna⯑ment himſelf; and he is a deceiver, as poor Martha knows to her coſt. Oh! poor Martha! ſhe was once the very life of the Foreſt.

But what think you of Little John?

I think him a ruſſetan, a goodly apple, with a plain outſide, but ſound core.

And I think ſo too; for he ſtrews thyme under my window, when he thinks I do not ſee him; and when he gathers wild ſtrawberries, or filberts, or finds honeycombs in the woods, he al⯑ways preſents them to me untouched.

There is as much difference between John and Scarlet, as between an honeſt man and a knave. I know they are both your admirers, but be cautious in beſtowing your affection; you are very young, Stella; and love, my girl, has its bitters as well as ſweets.

I would tell you a ſecret—but you muſt hear me without cenſure; or if you reprove, re⯑member, the leſſons of affection make the deepeſt impreſſions when breathed in gentleneſs.

Speak with freedom. Something I fear has hurt you.

Yes, I am hurt, yet I cannot tell where, I am pleaſed too, yet I cannot tell why. I ſigh when I wiſh to ſmile. Nay more, I am warm in the cool ſhade, and freeze even in the ſun. Heigh ho!

And how long have you had this com⯑plaint?

How long! It has been coming on me by degrees at leaſt theſe long, long two months. [18] Let me whiſper you a queſtion; nay, turn your head, I cannot ſpeak while you look in my face. You muſt know, Little John this day gave me ſome wild plumbs—La, I cannot ſay a word more!

Then the complaint lies there.

Where, brother, where—mercy, ſhew me! Sure I do not eat too many wild plumbs—where does the complaint lie? I feel the pain, but cannot diſcover the ſeat of it.

Lay your hand upon your heart and pro⯑nounce the name of John.

There—John, John, John—Bleſs me! how it beats—pit, pit, pit, pat—Heigh ho! my complaint I find is the heart-burn and palpitation.

The truth is you love John.

Love a man! O fie! Yet, certainly I have a great friendſhip for John. You know, brother, when I fell into the river, he plunged in and ſaved my life, while Scarlet run for aſſiſtance.

I do not blame your gratitude; but be cautious, John's ſimplicity might prove as injuri⯑ous as Scarlet's cunning.

I'll follow your advice, for I have heard, young girls often meet ruin where they expect ſecurity—

And ever after ſuffer under the pangs of ſhame, repentance, and bitter grief.

Nay, let me perſuade you, my ſweet couſin, do not depart till you ſee the reſult of my adventure.

That is impoſſible, my vow prohibits me: I will not reſt till I have reached the coaſt, nor will I return till I meet tidings of my love.

But we are now near the bower of my lover—O Cupid! thou tyrant of the paſſions, be merciful to thy poor petitioner!

Well, this love has ſet you both mad; but your madneſs, Madam,

I think the moſt deſirable. Heaven defend me from the afflictions of my lady, my lord I mean! Melan⯑choly madneſs is horrible! But let who will ſigh, I will laugh through life while I breathe. La! I have had lovers of all profeſſions, and played them off with equal indifference.

Some one comes this way.

One of the merry archers—Hillo! hillo! tantivy!

Hillo! hillo! hilloa!

By St. Dunſtan's ſhrine, a Diana! and with a voice ſhrill as the lark! Egad, fair nymph, you make the welkin ring with your ſhrill notes. But why ſalute me with a tantivy; I, being a batchelor, and that gratulation only due to married gentry, who come under the deſcription of bucks?

Save your reverence,

I preſume you are a palmer, performing penance for the ſins of your forefathers, for thou art too young to have tranſgreſſed thyſelf. But may I enquire, are you returning from, or going on a pilgrimage?

Why aſk? what is your reaſon? and what right has my maſter to anſwer you?

Here is a chatterer! Pray, my little mag⯑pie, has your tongue been ſplit with a ſilver groat, that it wags ſo glibly?

You muſt know, my good friend, I and my maſter have traverſed France, croſſed the Alps, viſited Jeruſalem, made an excurſion into Turkey, and—

Enough, enough—Egad, my lad of wax, the hinges of your tongue want no oiling. But pray now, to what purpoſe did you go through all this fatigue?

In truth, to little purpoſe: our objects were beauty and virtue, both of which we find flouriſh better at home than in any other ſoil. Pray, Sir, give this inquiſitive fellow an account of your travels.

I will indulge him with all my heart, and then, fair couſin, without further ceremony, or even a farewel, I ſhall depart

My page has told you beauty and virtue were the objects of my ſearch.

May cheerfulneſs be thy guide, and ſafety thy attendant.

I ſay Amen, from the depth of my heart. And now, you more than mortal, what is your bu⯑ſineſs in the Foreſt?

I ſeek a known bold archer, who draws his bow with ſkill, and can pierce an apple, or ſplit a wand, at threeſcore yards diſtance.

Then you have hit the mark; and tho' I ſay it, who ſhould not ſay it; there is not a tighter fellow, of his inches, in the Foreſt, than your humble ſervant Little John.

Art thou Little John?

The ſame, lady—But ſee, I have no ap⯑prehenſion from the quiver of your eyes; my af⯑fections are engaged, and my heart is proof againſt their arrows. But for your comfort, there are charitable men in the Foreſt, and you may ſecure half a dozen ſtrings to your bow.

Half a dozen! Cry you mercy, Little John: I have heard of your proweſs it is true, but ſeek a man at leaſt a foot taller.

'Fore George, damſel, you ſing a merry [...]ave; but Robin will never fight you, ſo there is comfort for you and your oh, ho, ho!—But here he comes, and with him a poor love-ſick devil, going to turn hermit—

It is, indeed, my dear Robin!—

Dear Robin! Who are you? Speak nymph, I begin to ſuſpect—

Step aſide and I will tell you.

Your lily hand

for egad, damſel, I like you and your oh, ho ho!

It grieves me I cannot perſuade you to remain with us, time and reflection, with cheerful [25] company and the ſports of the chace, would alle⯑viate your pain.

No, no—I have tried every means in vain: three years abſence has not leſſened, but encreaſed my paſſion and my grief—even hope, that ſweetning balm which attends the martyred wretch ſtrained on the rack in his laſt pangs of torture, is denied to me.

Pray hear me.

Do not urge me—my life I have devot⯑ed to heaven, and will perſevere—permit one of your archers to conduct me to the hermitage.

You ſhall be obliged; and yet I hope for your aſſiſtance and advice in recovering my love, my dear Clorinda!

You ſhall have my prayers—ſucceſs at⯑tend your efforts. You venture for a woman who reciprocrates your paſſion, and will reward it; I ſuffer for an unfeeling maid, whoſe ſcorn was in⯑ſtant death, did nor her beauty ſalve the wound it gives.

Clear the clouds from your brow, and prepare for laughter; I have a merry tale to tickle your fancy with.

Poſtpone your merriment, good John: I am in a melancholy mood, and would indulge it.

I bring ſomething to rouze your ſpirits— A challenge, and there lies the gauntlet.

A woman's glove.

I know not whether man or woman; but the challenger is here in the Foreſt, and ſwears to beat you with an Oh ho, ho!

Perhaps ſome lover of my Clorinda! here comes the ſtranger.

A woman!

I ſay a goddeſs—but turn your head this way, pleaſe your goddesſhip; for if you fight here it muſt be face to face.

Not know me Robin!

It is Clorinda, my life, my love!

Egad that is a Corniſh hug!

O Robin—I have ventured all for you! will you not think lightly of me? am I not leſ⯑ſened in your eſteem, for thus boldly ſtepping be⯑yond the bounds preſcribed my ſex?

Say, how haſt thou eſcaped?—I had re⯑ſolved as ſoon as to-morrow's ſun ſet from the world, to force you from your tyrant.

Then you had been diſappointed, for I had reſolved with the aſſiſtance of Allen a Dale, and our merry men, to have done the buſineſs this very night unknown to you. It is a great diſ⯑appointment to me, fair lady, to be deprived the pleaſure of knocking the old proud Baron, your uncle, on the head.

My uncle went yeſterday to court, in conſequence of an order from the king; and it is rumoured the French have threatened an invaſion. I availed myſelf of his abſence, and fled to you, my love.

To live in this dreary Foreſt; but it is not dreary—where you reſide the ſweeteſt violets blow—ſpring ſports around your walks; and when you ſmile, the coldeſt hearts rejoice with ſummer's warmth.

See the merry archers returning from the chace.

My friends congratulate me: I have re⯑covered my Clorinda and we will have a jovial day. Love has found his way into the foreſt, and to refuſe him an hoſpitable reception, would be ungrateful.

Stella, why ſilent? Lady, this is the tender dove of my affection, and you ſhall ſolicit for me:

But let's into the bower— Old Splice'em the friar, who arrived this morn⯑ing, came in pudding-time, and if I can prevail on Stella, he ſhall ſhortly lug out his horn-book.

ACT II.

I THANK you, my dear ſiſter, for your atten⯑tion to my advice: but I muſt to my flocks; farewel, and ever remember this, my dear girl, that though female virtue is an ineſtimable dia⯑mond, it is delicacy which gives it poliſh and briliancy of the firſt water.

I ſhall remember your inſtructions.

Here comes my butterfly lover: he ſquints his eye at me, though I am ſure he admires his own face more than mine, or he would not ſo often peep into the brook. He walks this way, ſo I will ſtop and play the rogue with him.—Bleſs me! where can it be?

It muſt have been ſomewhere here⯑abouts.

I would not have loſt it for—

What have you loſt, my pretty Stella?

How could you frighten me by coming ſo ſuddenly? I have loſt—La! you cannot think what I have loſt.—

And I have loſt—What do you think I have loſt?

Not your ſenſes, I hope?

Why, in truth, even them; a man who has loſt his heart, generally loſes his ſenſes.

Loſt your heart! Why carry it ſo looſe in your, breaſt? But ſome ſilly girl will pick it up, and return it; ſo farewel, thou heartleſs man.

Why fly me?

Becauſe I fear you.

And why fear me?

Becauſe you are a man, and, by your own confeſſion, a heartleſs man; now, a man without a heart ſhould always be avoided by a woman.

Stella, I love you.

So do I, moſt ſincerely.

What, my charmer?

Love myſelf to be ſure.

Be ſerious: few men in the Foreſt can boaſt better pretenſions to a maiden's regard than myſelf, and you may loſe me. Hear me, my ſweet girl.

But I am ſuch a fool I ſhall not take your hints; ſo farewel.

One word.—

Yes.—

Yes—that is one word indeed; but you muſt not go.

No, you muſt not go.

Devil take this fool.

Why curſe the fool, without including the knave? He is the worſt character of the two.

My budget and tools againſt your dou⯑blet, I know what you are about.

Are you a gambler?

You ſay I am a fool; and did you ever know a gambler who was not a fool, unleſs he was a rogue? They are all either pigeons or rooks.

Well, I am gone.

And I follow.

By theſe hands you ſhall not.

By theſe legs I will,

Ha, ha, ha! Well run doe! well run buck!—But, ha! by the Maſs the buck has fallen into a toil.

I ſay, Scarlet, I am angry.

Angry! No, no; you are jealous, John, jealous.

Jealous! It is falſe. Except among ſuch jack-a-dandies as you, jealouſy is not of this coun⯑try's growth; nor indeed of any country where the people can lay claim to manhood. I am angry.

I was never better pleaſed in my life: the ſmiles of a fine girl have raiſed my ſpirits.

But you muſt reſign all pretenſions to that fine girl, my frippery jay. She can have but one of us, and you are not the man.

You muſt reſign all pretenſions to that fine girl, my ruſtic clown. She can have but one of us, and I am the man.

Let me decide this diſpute. What are your pretenſions?

I love her.

You love her.—What do you ſay?

I love her.

You love her too.—So far your claims are equal. What would you do for her?

Die for her.

Then die and be —

I live for her, and her alone.

You would die for her,

You would live for her,

John, you are the man; for any woman, be ſhe ever ſo young, or ever ſo fooliſh, would prefer one living lover to a whole church-yard full of dead ones.

See, Scarlet, we are both fond of the girl: I would make her my wife, but your deſigns are knaviſh. Your falſe-heartedneſs to girls is notorious; it riſes with the morning lark, and preys nightly with the owl.

And what then?

Mark my words—if you dare attempt any villainy againſt the chaſtity of Stella, may I never draw an arrow to the head, if I don't ſplit you from the coxcomb to the waiſtband.

Ha, ha, ha!

Yes, and hang up your perfumed carcaſs on one of thoſe trees, to whiſtle and ſwing in the wind, like the ſign of the Spread Eagle.

What! promote him to the office of ſcare-crow, to frighten rooks from the Foreſt?

If you are for that work, let us deter⯑mine the conteſt this inſtant.

Don't ſplit him while I am here!

Let me at him, Tinker: Yet it kicks againſt the grain of my manhood to ſtain my ſword with ſplitting a ſpiced plover; a fellow who ſmells ſavory as a jack with a pudding in its belly; who plaiſters his face over-night with greaſe and flour, and looks in the morning, for all the world, like a pigeon in paſte.

Take a fool's advice in this buſineſs; court the girl openly, and let him who wins her wear her.

There is wiſdom in the fool's advice.

And I agree to the fool's advice; he is a wiſe fool.

Right, lads! Riſk your lives for a wo⯑man! Ha, ha, ha! What woman would do ſo for you, my dapper jack-aſſes, pigmies of fourteen to the dozen! It is more than I could expect, who am a man of ſize: but I never quarrel for my miſtreſſes, though always ſouſed over head and ears in the tender paſſion; enamoured with every landlady and tapſtreſs over the country, the Soldan of Perſia is not a greater Turk at the buſineſs.

Well niece, I ſee you are ſurprized.

Surprized! I am aſtoniſhed, frighted to death.

Niece, niece, thou art the wildeſt doe in the foreſt; thou haſt over-leaped the pale of prudence and delicacy, and art a very outlaw— O, I bluſh at this tranſgreſſion of duty and mo⯑deſty!

You mean my emancipation from ty⯑ranny. In truth, uncle, the very hour you ſet out for court, I eluded the eyes of the Argus placed over me, and fled to the foreſt. Is not Robin my betrothed lord? and as ſuch do I not owe him a duty that ſupercedes every other. But tell me, what is your buſineſs here, diſguiſed thus in perſon and manners?

Firſt, anſwer—How is my daughter? Thank heaven! in the delicacy of her conduct, I may place confidence.

When I parted from my couſin, ſhe was well, but as uſual rather melancholy. Now anſwer me: what is your buſineſs here?

Swear you will not betray me.

On my honour: I would periſh firſt.

I come here by order of the king a ſpy upon your lover.

A ſpy! Oh ſhame, ſhame! how could you degenerate into ſo mean an office?

Remember your promiſe. His life is in my power: by to-morrow's dawn, the biſhop of Hereford with five hundred archers will attack the Foreſt.

Five hundred archers! a noble force worthy my Robin's valour. Let them come on: with him I'll head his merry-men, cheer his cou⯑rage, and oppoſe my boſom to the keeneſt darts of his enemy. Uncle be aſſured of this: the woman who would live ſolely for the man ſhe loves, poſſeſſes ſufficient courage to die for him.

On your duty grant me one requeſt, and all ſhall be well. Put off your marriage till morning—call up every ſmile and blandiſhment of love and beauty to aid your eloquence—ſolicit, nay, you muſt perſuade your lover to come within his ſovereign's grace. The enemy prepares to in⯑vade the land, and his power is neceſſary to his country.

The duty is pleaſing, and I will try my utmoſt.

His life depends on the event. He comes: ſo remember niece, you muſt defer your nuptials, and you have pledged your honour not to give the moſt diſtant hint of who I am, or of my buſi⯑neſs here.

What, father ſhriving Clorinda; but ſhe has no ſins to anſwer for, except her love for me, and that ſhe has confeſſed in plenitude of good⯑neſs. Take care however, ſanctimonious Sir, I ſhall grow jealous if I catch you thus alone with my love.

A fig for love; my jug is my love, my wife—My ale my joy, my comfort—A liberal miſtreſs, who while in my poſſeſſion ſhall never refuſe to ſhare her favours with my friends.

Nay, father, you ſhould not conſider drink as a miſtreſs, but a cheerful companion to drive away melancholy—ſome ale.—

Ale—ale—ale.—

The Friar is really moſt porterly drunk.

True, tinker, and being porterly drunk, he is able to carry his liquor.

To you, John, I ſhall leave the direc⯑tion of our nuptial ſports and paſtimes.

And I ſhall take care to furniſh good amuſements. You may expect, lady, ſuch archery as Diana or Apollo could never equal. Then we ſhall have at leaſt half a dozen heads cracked at quarter-ſtaff and ſingle-ſtick; a few bones broken at foot-ball, and a back or neck fractured at wreſt⯑ling —Oh! we ſhall have rare fun!

Not thoſe who have their bones broken, John.

Then we ſhall have bull-baiting and morrice-dancing—O how I long to be capering!

Dance till you fall, John, but no bull-baiting; man has no right to ſport with the feel⯑ings of thoſe creatures which heaven has beſtow⯑ed for our ſuſtenance. They die for our uſe, and it is baſe ingratitude to treat them with cruelty.

Thank you for that humane ſentiment, my dear Robin.

Do you go to the young hermit who left us this morning, tell him of my happineſs, and that I requeſt his preſence at our feſtival.

Can you find the way, Tinker?

I paſſed the hermitage coming here, and will go forward upon the beaten path: never fear a fool finding his way through the world: fools keep the high road, it is your wiſe men who go aſide and fall into the ditch.

You may truſt him with the delivery of a meſſage; he will be true to your word, though a liar and a tinker.

No ſlur upon tinkers; they are found in every honourable profeſſion. Your politician's a tinker, in mending the ſtate kettle, when he patches up one hole he makes two; your poet's a tinker, he hammers out new works from other men's old wit; the lawyer's a tinker, he deals in braſs and opens more flaws than he ſtops; and what's your phyſician? why a tinker too, a bra⯑zier of old battered conſtitutions, and if he cures you of a gout, will take care to leave a rheuma⯑tiſm behind for a new job.

Well, I'll to my duty—men, women, and children are buſy in their ſeveral vocations. [40] The Pindar of Wakefield has brought in a brace of fat bucks, Arthur a Bland has caught a diſh of choice jacks, the maid Marian's preparing the paſtry, and tiny Midge the miller is bolting flour for bread—farewel—every one to their vocations; you to amorous dalliance, I to ſee pretty Stel⯑la twining flowers round the bridal garland.

Poor John's deeply ſmitten—Heigh ho!

That was a ſigh of grief—Are you not well? Chearly, chearly. Come we will diſpute on love, my ſweetheart.

On love we muſt ever agree: But I would conſult with you on your honour—remind you of your own value. Your king has been in⯑ſulted by an enemy; and will you, my ſweet Ro⯑bin, boaſting the blood of Huntingdon and War⯑wick, endowed with thoſe noble qualities Courage and Generoſity, neglect the duty you owe your country, conſuming life and reputation within the ſequeſtered ſhades of a foreſt.

You know the wrongs I have ſuffered— My ſervices overlooked; baniſhed on a falſe accu⯑ſation; ſtigmatized with the imputation of a re⯑bellious ſpirit; and even you, my betrothed wife, forced from my arms.

Conſider, Robin, when our country is in danger, all offences ſhould be abſolved; the remembrance of all injuries be forgotten; all par⯑ties ſhould unite; every heart pant, and every arm act, for her honor and defence. Robin, poſtpone our nuptials till reconciled to your ſovereign; I would marry the leader of an army—not the cap⯑tain of an outlawed band.

She ſhakes my ſoul—I will put her heart to the teſt

I am determined here to ſpend my days—here to live as I have done—this you fear—this has ſhaken your conſtancy.

To doubt my truth is ungenerous. Your fate is mine. But hear me.

Will you be ever ready, with bended bow, to watch an outlaw and defend his life? Can you ſupport the viciſſitudes of ſeaſons—endure the ſcorching heat and cramping cold? Lodge on the chill ground, and depend for food upon the caſualties of the chace?

All this could I bear, and even more with thee! But hear me—

Suppoſe my affection cooled to thee, and warmed by the beauty of another object—could you with calmneſs ſee her ſupply your place?

O, Robin! the ſight would wound my heart, but not decreaſe my love!

Dearer than life! what, ſuffer this for me? Command my pride, my affections—Oh! thou haſt ſoothed my reſentments—conquered them—hath rouſed my loyalty—thy patriot flame now blazes in my boſom. Yes, Clorinda, I will join my country's arms, and head my merry-men. But what has my country to fear? While Engliſh-women thus inſpire ſentiments of public virtue, loyalty, and honour, the number of our enemies will but increaſe our victories.

Stella, well met, I hear terrible complaints of you, child.

Of me, lady—

Yes, of you, lady. John ſays you are cruel, flinty-hearted, and ill-natured.

And I know he loves her, though too modeſt to urge his ſuit.

Loves me! Then indeed he never told me ſo; and I rather think he fears me. He ap⯑proaches me with a cautious ſtep, then looks at me with a cunning eye—ſo—and when he gives me any thing, if his hand ſhould but touch mine, la, la, he trembles juſt as if I was a wild beaſt. But I will tell you a ſecret.

A ſecret! O mercy, let us hear it.

I fear I have done a wrong thing. Scarlet has been at our cottage, and he ſwore ſo much, I promiſed to meet him here.

That was wrong indeed! Never forget, my dear ſiſter, that to preſerve character, we ſhould avoid even the appearance of imprudence; a wound on the character of a young female, like an inciſion on the bark of a tree, expands with maturity.

And I have heard that this ſame Scar⯑let, with all his foppery, is an inſinuating, deſign⯑ing fellow; and that more than one unhappy maid mourns his treachery.

It is true; Lady Martha, one of Stella's faireſt companions, is now a wanderer through the Foreſt, lamenting and upbraiding, in all the hor⯑ror of melancholy madneſs, her own weakneſs and the wickedneſs of her ſeducer. Take example by her, dear Stella.

Robin—fair lady—bleſs me—

You ſee I told you truth—He is always frightened at me.

I am not frightened—I do not know how it is, but—as I was going to tell you, one of our ſcouts brings word, that the Biſhop of Hereford has raiſed his men, and is now at Nottingham, with intention to attack the Foreſt in the morning.

I'll to my Robin. John, I have been ſpeaking to Stella. She has no diſlike to you. What ſay you, Stella, inſtead of being my brideſmaid, will you be a bride yourſelf?

Heigh ho! my poor heart!

Heigh ho! O my poor heart!

Farewell, I leave you together; and, John, take care, make the beſt uſe of your time, you know you have a rival; and this ſame love is a fantaſtical paſſion, a riddle which the wiſeſt can⯑not reſolve.

Hem.

Heigh ho! Margery.

I have ſhot the firſt arrow.

Are you there, John?

Yes, Stella:—Courage, John, courage.

Do you ſpeak to me, John?

There is nobody elſe here, Stella:— I, I, I would.—

La! what would you do?

I love you more than—

More than what?

More than the ewe loves her lamb, the doe her fawn, or the dove her mate; I love thee a thouſand times better than I love myſelf.

And what then?

Love me in return.

And if I ſhould, what follows?

We would do as our parents did before us—marry.

La! that word marry is enough to frighten poor little Cupid out of the Foreſt: mar⯑ried folks ſeldom agree—there is George a Green abuſed his wife in the honey-moon, and ſtruck her before the end of the year; to be ſure ſhe has a tongue, and a way of flinging things at his head.—

We ſhould have none of this work, Stel⯑la; though ſuch domeſtic breezes are as neceſſary in ſome families as thunder ſtorms in hot weather; the one clears the houſe of ſoul language, and the other frees the air of ſoul vapours.

Then, John, my brother ſays I am too young; though I want only eleven months, one week and two days of eighteen. But how ſhould we maintain ourſelves?—

Prudent ſoul; how ſhe looks forward to a young family!—I will maintain you by my wit, my girl; a means by which many great folks hold up their heads; beſides, I have goods and chattels, all the furniture you have ſeen in my cottage ſhall be yours, and egad, I will throw all you have not ſeen into the bargain.

Thank you from my heart, John—and in return, all I poſſeſs is at your ſervice.

Honeſtly ſpoken; ſo thus I ſeize upon the fruits of your father's induſtry, and your mo⯑ther's labour.

This way—this way—

Mercy! here are ſome men coming.

Who in the name of Old Nick are they? let us ſtand aſide and ſee.

See, gentlemen, the biſhop of Hereford will not come alone; the King's forces join him, and you can have no chance from oppoſition; ſo convey me to Nottingham, and I'll inſure pardon to every man who accompanies me.

What ſay you, lads?

We will follow the fortunes of our Captain.

But can we in conſcience deſert our Captain?

No more about conſcience.—But come, I'll put it to the trial, and here is the ordeal,

here is the general abſolution that ſalves all conſciences.—This opens and ſhuts the mouths of the moſt vociferous orators, blinds the eyes of the church, deafens the ears of magi⯑ſtrates, obliterates the judgment of the law, arreſts the arm of juſtice, and dries up the fountains of mercy. How feels your conſcience now?

It tells me I am in duty bound to obey my ſpiritual paſtor.

Religiouſly ſpoken. Here, take the ful⯑ler's earth, that removes all ſtains.

Friar, I want no money; my terms are theſe: This night I keep watch with my friends; now, when our company is aſleep, we will ſeize upon Stella, carry her off, and thus reward my⯑ſelf.

I'll take care of that, you treacherous raſcal. Here's for you, ſanctified devil.

And now for you, good maſter Scarlet, whom I ſhall in a few minutes caſe—cloſe as a hare—Yes, I'll ſkin and carbonade you, you dog.

Come on.—

Help! Murder! Help!

Is this a return for the hoſpitable recep⯑tion our Captain gave you?

Bring me before your Captain, that is all I deſire.

As for you, raſcal, you ſhall die like a traitor.

Say, what is the matter?

This hypocritical Friar I have diſcovered in the very act of bribing our men to deſert with him to Nottingham, for the purpoſe of betraying us; and Scarlet here was to carry off your ſiſter Stella.

We will not diſturb brave Robin with them now. Let them be confined cloſe priſoners till morning.

I ſubmit, but do not uſe me ill; for re⯑member, no man ever injured the church with im⯑punity.

It was lucky, John, that you were ſo near.

It was indeed. He once ſaved my life, and now preſerved my honour.

Which entitles him to your heart.

But hark! the merry archers are returning from the evening's chace.

ACT III.

SO, after all my boaſting, I have loſt my way; but that is common with men of genius, and women of genius too. There is your great ora⯑tor; he often leaves the plain road of truth, to wander in the labyrinth of falſehood. Then your prude, perhaps, after walking years in the ſtreight paths of virtue, trips in her gait, and, ſtumbling, falls upon a bed of thorns. ‘Few people purſue the tract Nature deſigned them—therefore we find politicians without brains, magiſtrates with⯑out juſtice, noblemen without honour, traders without honeſty, philoſophers without morality, and churchmen without religion.’—

Hilloa! hilloa!

Here comes ſome ſhepherd's boy, bleat⯑ing like one of his lambs.

Mercy! how dark!

Hilloa!—

Heaven preſerve me!—Pity me, if you are a human creature.

I am a human creature, but with an appetite keen as a wolf.

Sure you are the tinker I met this morning!

Right, my little popping-jay; but where is your companion?

I have loſt him in the Foreſt; help me to ſeek him, and he ſhall reward you liberally.

Reward me! Give me your hand—Re⯑ward me!—I have been out, I find, in my road, but not in my reckoning.

It is my maſter's voice.—Speak, Sir, I am here.

Yes, your man is here, pleaſe your ho⯑nour, and with him a tinker, who brought him to you—but not for the ſake of the reward he pro⯑miſed.

I am fatigued with wandering through this Foreſt, ſo dark and dreary.

It is a faſhionable ſituation, your ho⯑nour; moſt of our great folks are bewildered, or in the dark.

Do you live in the Foreſt, Sir?

No, I ſtarve in the Foreſt, Sir.

Are there any inhabitants to be found here, maſter Tinker?

Yes, bucks and does in plenty; as many horned cattle as any city can boaſt. I am now in ſearch of a hermit, with an invitation to Robin Hood's wedding, which is to be celebrated in the morning.

Your couſin Clorinda, you hear, has not ſtood upon punctilio.

Well, Sir, permit us to accompany you in ſearch of this ſame hermit.—I am very weak,

but feel moſt for you, my faithful companion; for myſelf no miſery is too great.

Hark! I hear the harbinger of love! A happy omen!

It is indeed the nightingale!

Yes, and preſently you will hear the ſcreech-owl.

There goes the curfew of ſome neigh⯑bouring town; the ſound comes from the left.— Tinker, lead on.

O my ruined love!

You did not ruin him, he was very poor!

Peace! He was rich in virtues; wealth nor power were not his, it is true; but he had wiſdom, truth, and generoſity—thoſe ſhould have been all to me.

Come, gentle folks, I wait.

We come, tinker.—Pray do not weep.

Yes, weep for ever, though in vain. Not all the dew of heaven can revive the cropped violet.

Pr'ythee, mend your pace; this wood is haunted by the ghoſts of, gibbeted thieves, and murdered travellers.—Bleſs me! I heard a noiſe—no; it was the wind. Robin Goodfellow and his brother fairies have been often ſeen here!—Liſt! I hear a ruſtling in the buſhes—ſome cut-throat, no doubt.

Why tremble ſo?

I tremble, thou aguiſh aſpin!

—Sir, do you not hear the devil, or ſome evil ſpirit?

Some one approaches—and ſee yonder a glimmering light ſparkles in the dark, perhaps in ſome cottage window.

Yes, and it moves this way, houſe and all.

Heaven preſerve us!

And forgive us our ſins.—O my poor conſcience! The poultry I have, ſtolen are peck⯑ing at it, and the lambs baaing in my ears.—

Silence, coward!

I am dumb.—But who ever looked on the devil without quaking?—No, it is not the devil, but a ghoſt or hobgoblin.—Nay, it is the devil too, for I ſee his great ſaucer eyes blazing with blue fire!

Peace, coward! perhaps ſome be⯑nighted traveller like ourſelves.

It is the devil, I ſay; look at his cloven feet, great horns, and monſtrous noſtrils!—I'll to prayers.—

O my heart!—

It is a broken-hearted poor devil too.

Indeed that was a bitter ſigh.

I felt it in my boſom.

How dark and ſtill the night!—How ſuited to the ſituation of my ſoul! Oh Love, Love! why preſent her image to my mind, whoſe chilling breath froze my fond youthful hopes, and ſunk me to deſpair?

You may ſing, Oh be joyful! this cer⯑tainly is the hermit.

Stand off.—Who are you?

Zounds! it is not the hermit!

Speak, I ſay; you have no injury to fear from me.

We are two young pilgrims who have loſt our way, and wander in the horrors of the Foreſt.

And a poor Tinker, almoſt famiſhed to death.

Who calls upon your compaſſion to guide their wearied ſteps to ſome hoſpitable cot⯑tage!

Your voice breathes gentleneſs—your hand, young man.—The day already breaks— my cell is near, where you may reſt in ſafety: ſimple fare, and a couch of ruſhes, are at your ſervice.

Poor ſouls! the lantern you carry in your poop frighted them out of their wits; they took you one time for a ghoſt; then for a hob⯑goblin; then for a Will o'th'wiſp; and at laſt for the devil himſelf! heaven bleſs us. Though I did all I could to encourage them, I ſhall never forget how they ſhook.

Nor I how you confeſſed ſtealing the poultry and lambs.

Come on, I'll lead the way, and if free from that tyrant-paſſion, Love, my habitation may enſure you a comfortable repoſe.

Oh, my heart!

Grief I perceive ſits heavy on your mind, and weighs your ſpirits down; you mourn a broken fortune, a falſe friendſhip, or a deſerted love.

Gentle hermit, broken fortune, nor falſe friendſhip are not the cauſes of my melancholy.

No, we mourn empty bellies; my ribs ſtick as cloſe together as the two ſhells of an oyſter. Come, out with your purſe, youngſter: the reward, the reward.

Reward! a ſound beating is the pro⯑per reward for a coward; beſides thou art a liar for denying thy cowardice, and a rogue for de⯑manding what you have no right to.

The very reaſons why I ſhould have my reward; you ſee my garments are as ſeedy as a gingerbread cake; out at the elbows like a poet; ſo ſince I am a rogue and a liar, and ragged with⯑all, give me the money lad, that I may get out of my bad habits.

Here, firrah;

This can procure you every thing but that you want moſt, honeſty.

Never mind that: heaven bleſs him who makes me a rich rogue. O that I was now in Robin Hood's bower, it is there where plenty reigns, and good cheer keeps revel, and by this time the bridal breakfaſt is preparing.

Well John, his reverence the Biſhop of Hereford has not ventured to attack us.

No: he waits the return of our priſoner, the Curtle Friar, who I am convinced is his ſpy; but Robin will truſs him up, "and he is right, I have no notion of ſpiritual paſtors laying aſide the keys of Saint Peter, to take up the ſword of Saint Paul."

Right, John.—

But let me tell you, all our cares are at an end: Clorinda has perſuaded Robin to make proper conceſſions to the king, and join him in drubbing the enemy. He will be Earl of Huntingdon again; I'll be a Knight, Stella a Lady, and you a 'Squire: but this is loſing time. Let the pri⯑ſoners be brought forward,

we will firſt diſpatch them, and then all get mad as ſo many March hares.

Fix the bench of juſtice here, which is is made of yew, ſignifying the bitterneſs of judg⯑ment. We ſhould have tried this wicked prieſt and our treacherous companion before day, but judicial proceedings ought never be carried on in the dark.

Nor in twilight, John; therefore we Engliſh hate Star-chamber buſineſs. But it is now broad light, ſhall we proceed?

Yes, but firſt bring me in the robes and coif, we ſtripped from the learned Serjeant of the law, on his way to the parviſe.

A judge might as well appear without his head as without his robe; for profeſſional wiſdom conſiſts much in looking grave.

Great knowledge and hocus pocus lie depoſited under this coif. Now I am equipt in the uniform of the courts, and qualified to hear and determine cauſes.

Do I look wiſe?—

Aye, as wiſe as an owl at midnight— So wiſe, were you to appear in Weſtminſter-hall, on a call of Serjeants, the judges might cry out, "I ſpy a brother!"

Order in the priſoners and witneſſes.— Though to be ſure I am acquainted with the whole caſe myſelf; but then being a judge, I muſt know nothing but what comes out in evidence.

Shall we impannel a jury?

A jury! Piſh, no: where is the neceſ⯑ſity? Juries follow the direction of the court: yet we may as well have one for form's ſake. Range yourſelves Archers for the jury.

Now bring in the proſecutors and the proſecutees.

Why are the priſoners bound? For ſhame Bowman! A man upon his trial ſhould be perfectly at eaſe in his body, that he may have the free uſe of his mind.

Now carry away the ropes: the ſight of halters may be offenſive, or raiſe a fellow feeling, and diſturb ſome of the jury. Command ſilence.

Silence!

You father Tuck, and you William Scar⯑let, ſtand charged with carrying on a correſpon⯑dence with the biſhop of Hereford, and an inten⯑tion to betray us, lords and yeomen of the Foreſt, into his hands.

How ſay you, William Scarlet; guilty or not guilty.

Not guilty.

Not guilty! Say ſo again, you damned dog, and you ſhall be hanged without further trial, as a notorious liar. Will you challenge any of the Jury?

You know, John, I'd fight the beſt of them.

Fight the beſt of you: he don't under⯑ſtand the term; but, gentlemen, it is legal prac⯑tice that the priſoner ſhould be ignorant of the proceedings carried on againſt him.

Will you liſten to reaſon?

Liſten to reaſon! No, ſirrah, not on the part of the priſoner: I ſit here as a judge of law, not of reaſon; beſides, I have four reaſons for hanging you. Firſt, you muſt be hanged, becauſe I am not to ſit here for nothing: ſecondly, you muſt be hanged, becauſe you have nobody to ſtand up for you: thirdly, you muſt be hanged, becauſe you appear in forma pauperis without mo⯑ney; and, fourthly, you muſt be hanged, becauſe you have a damned hanging look. Gentlemen, I have finiſhed my charge.

Gentlemen of the Jury, are you agreed? Is the priſoner guilty, or not guilty?

Guilty.

Put him bye. Stand forward, Friar. Friar Tuck, are you guilty or not guilty?

Guilty.

The firſt truth I believe you ever told.

May I ſpeak.

Not after conviction—Take him away.

One word—

Stop his mouth.—

I plead my clergy.

Plead your clergy!—The devil you do? —Oh, ho!—Gentlemen of the Jury, this is a point of law, and muſt be left to Robin Hood. I ſhall only obſerve, that it is really a ſtrange doc⯑trine, that men of the church and men of letters, [62] ſhould commit with impunity crimes for which other men ſuffer without mercy.

John you are early at duty.

Yes, Juſtice ſhould never ſleep.

True, John, nor ſhould Mercy ever cloſe her eyes.

That ſentiment breathes philanthropy. How comes this, uncle? I have perſuaded my Ro⯑bin to ſue his Sovereign for grace.

Then procure my diſmiſſion, and all is well.

May I interfere?—

The buſineſs is over, madam, we have fully convicted the priſoners: will you pronounce judgment on the Friar?

Shall we hang him up, or cut him down?

We will leave him, John, to the accu⯑ſations of his own conſcience; a ſeverer puniſh⯑ment than any we can inflict. Your profeſſion, Sir, ſhould have taught you principles of honour.

Principles of honour!—You miſtake your man: this fellow is one of thoſe itinerant mendicants who travel the country, and ripen in the ſunſhine of public charity, producing very little devotion, with a plentiful crop of ſenſuality.

Will you diſmiſs me?

Yes, to the other world.

Prudence would juſtify my inflicting on you the ſevereſt puniſhment; but humanity for⯑bids it. Go to the proud biſhop of Hereford, and tell him, an outlaw inſtructed a church-man, by example, that charity which he ſhould practiſe as well as teach.

I obey; and your meſſage ſhall be deli⯑vered literally. But be aſſured, when next we meet, you ſhall not have all the advantage; I will have ample ſatisfaction for this generoſity.

Bowman, order him ſafe conduct through the Foreſt.—

— And now for you, Sir,

your ingrati⯑tude hurts me, and your baſe intent upon this in⯑nocent girl I cannot forgive; ‘for, let me tell you, Sir, there does not exiſt a greater wretch than he who, by perſuaſion and perjury, ſeduces to ſhame the object of his paſſion.’

‘I know of none greater, except the vil⯑lain who, having ruined, abandons.’

Might I implore his pardon, on condi⯑tion—

What is the condition, Stella?

That he marries poor Martha. She is juſt now returned to her mother's cottage, over⯑whelmed with grief.

This, if he performs, ſhall again reſtore him to the Foreſt—

—Come, girls, the morning is fine, and we ſhall rouſe a ſtag before breakfaſt.

‘You'll excuſe me; I never found plea⯑ſure in worrying animals innocent as they are beautiful; and who have neither cunning to avoid nor courage to face their purſuers,’

Robin, lead on; I'll accompany you and your merry archers to the chace.

Here ſhould I wiſh to take up my abode, and, like the benevolent hermit of this cell, exhauſt my days in prayers and repentance.

He ſometimes ſighs as bitterly as yourſelf.

Oh, there is no grief like mine! Re⯑flect on the man I loved!—Not the ſweets of the [65] opening bloſſom, refined by the dew of heaven, could emulate the purity of his mind.—The dew, the bloſſom, the ſweets were his; but, woe to me! the inconſtancy of their charms was mine.

Hail, my youthful gueſts! I hope this humble cell has afforded you comfort?

We owe you grateful thanks.

The morning ſun has pierced the Fo⯑reſt's gloom, and glitters on the dew; the fea⯑thered choriſters chaunt their mattins to that bounteous Power which gave them being; and nature ſeems alive to love and cheerfulneſs: while man, ungrateful man alone! overlooks thoſe bleſ⯑ſings which the all-wiſe, the all-benignant hand of Heaven daily pours on him.

What perſuaſive melody breathes in his voice!

I could hear him preach for an hour. Pity ſo ſenſible, ſo young and clever a man, ſhould turn hermit.

See where this fool, improvident of time, ſhrouded in temporary death, dozes through life, and indolently loſes Heaven's moſt precious gifts, the exerciſe of thought and reaſon. Awake! awake, ſluggard! the morning wears apace.

Why diſturb me?—Yet, by my appe⯑tite, it is time to riſe.

Young pilgrim, my heart participates the grief that evidently afflicts you, and my ſoul vibrates with thoſe involuntary ſighs you in vain attempt to ſuppreſs Tell me whence flow your ſorrows.

This ſoft hand has not long graſped a pilgrim's ſtaff.

Oh, my love-worn heart!

Is love the bane that cankers thy young breaſt? Hapleſs youth! Some proud, ſome faith⯑leſs woman has deſtroyed your peace.

Forgive the rudeneſs of a ſtranger, whoſe unhallowed feet intrudes where Heaven and you reſide.

Let me know your ſtory.—Beſhrew his heart who injured you! By Heaven I pity and would redreſs your wrongs.

You feel too much for me. I have been cruel, ungrateful.—Methinks I could con⯑ſide in you.—Let us retire, and, as you wiſh to know my ſtory, I will unboſom my heart to you in full confeſſion, and follow your advice

Tell me, youngſter, what crime has this maſter of yours committed? Something ter⯑rible, for his conſcience is moſt horribly haunted.

But not with the ghoſts of poultry or young lambs, maſter Tinker.

No more of that, if you love me.— But ſay, where are you come from?

We, as you may perceive by this badge, fought in the holy wars.

That was pious; you cut the throats of the Pagans for the honour of Heaven, and the good of your own ſouls.

In one engagement my maſter ſplit a Vizier to the chine, and I cut down a Baſhaw of three tails.

Ha! ha! He was a devil of a Baſhaw! —And you cut off his tails!

True; but it being our misfortune to be taken priſoner, we were carried to the houſe of a Muſti, where my maſter falling in love with the [67] Muſti's wife, and being diſcovered by him in the lady's apartment, to ſave himſelf, he ſtabbed the old fellow to the heart.

That was right; it was ſerving Heaven to kill a Turk.

We fled of courſe; and, after long wandering, came to a ſea-port, where we took ſhipping, and at laſt arrived in Old England.

And pray now, had you any love-affair upon your hands?

Certainly—I intrigued in the ſeraglio of a Janiſſary, who had a wife for every week, and a concubine for every day in the year.

O, poor fellow! he had an almanack full of them. But I cannot help laughing at a fellow with ſuch a pigmy perſon and ſqueak-pipe voice getting among ſo many women.

Why, ſirrah, wherever I travel, hun⯑dreds ſolicit my favours; but I am cruel, except to one maid only.

And is it—O Heaven!—Is it my love, my Angelina!—

I am your love indeed.

That is natural; after high words, they fall to wreſtling.

Yes, and the hermit will probably get the better of the pilgrim.

Annette, Annette, I have found my love, my Edwin!—Oh, that I ſhould not know thee!—But three years abſence, grief, and the hermit's habit, have cauſed the change. I have felt, for three long years, my ſpirit pine through weeping hours; but now thy ſmile lights up my mind, and all my ſorrows vaniſh like a fleeting dream.

Thou art altered too; the roſe of beauty is opened into bloom.—Here I could gaze, and feaſt my eyes for ever!—

But, Sir, we cannot all partake of that breakfaſt; ſo let us have ſomething more ſolid.

Peace, idiot!—Sir, I wiſh you hap⯑pineſs: this meeting has ſaved us a long journey; we were on our way to the Holy Land.

We were indeed! I had reſolved to find thee, Edwin, or periſh in the attempt.

Let us to the merry archers.—The brave Earl of Huntingdon is my friend, and will ſhare my felicity.

So you are a woman, he, he, he: what a confounded fool have I been not to diſcover it ſooner—Then, O mercy! what a legion of lies you have been telling about the Baſhaw, the Mufti, the Grand Vizier, the Janiſſary, their wives, their con⯑cubines, and their tails—What, think you of me?

Tolerable enough, as a Tinker; but moſt abominably as a man.—

They are going to—to—to—marry.

What then?

I have a great mind to pop the queſtion to her.—So I will—No I wont

—Tell me, thou ſilver ſkinned laſs with the golden locks, will you?—

What?

Nothing—Yes—but I'll tell you as we trip along—Never ſaw a girl better made for car⯑rying a tinker's budget.—But come, now for the marriage feſtival.

Allen, your forgiveneſs makes me your friend forever; and believe me, John, you have my warmeſt thanks: in protecting female innocence, you only performed a duty incumbent on every man. But how can I ever expiate the injury I in⯑tended you, fair Stella?

Your promiſe of marriage to poor weeping Martha, proves your repentance; and I not only forgive, but will, as far as poſſible, forget your tranſgreſſion.

Then I am ſatisfied.—From this day, Martha ſhall find me kind and conſtant, and in promoting her happineſs, I'll ſecure my own.

Your converſion makes us all happy, as far as it is poſſible for us to be ſo.

Save you, gentle folks.—Here am I returned with my ſtomach hollow as an empty ſauce-pan. The hermit is arrived, and with him two ſtrangers. Where is madam Clorinda? where is bold Robin? Here is a fine Lord, with a brave train, juſt alighted—Lord a' mercy on us!— Where are all the archers? Where is John, Scar⯑let, &c.—Here, here—this way, this way.

My dear uncle, you have performed your promiſe nobly.

I am no longer a tippling curtel Friar, but Baron Fitzherbert; and behold my cre⯑dentials.—

—His Majeſty's free pardon to all within the Foreſt.

Mercy! What virtue lies in a piece of parchment with a bit of wax to it!

Your humanity and benevolence have obliterated from the Royal breaſt every remem⯑brance of reſentment. I have it in command to inveſt you with your former dignities, honours, manors, and caſtles; and now ſalute you, Robert, Earl of Huntingdon.

Now I like this—But what prefer⯑ment, place, or penſion, have you got for me?

As you are a juſt judge, John, chuſe for yourſelf—Will you be hanged up, or cut down?— Nay, no anſwer after conviction, or I ſhall produce four reaſons.

A fig for your reaſons!—Here is my ſugar-plumb.

Clorinda, I beſtow you on Robin with all my heart; and to you, my daughter, I preſent your faithful lover.—And may beauty and virtue ever reward conſtancy.

The Royal bounty overpowers me, and your goodneſs ſoftens my heart, even to infant tenderneſs. This day we dedicate to love.—To⯑morrow I will re-aſſume my ſtation, and, in the ſervice of my King and Country, lead my merry archers to victory.