DOWNFALL OF ROBERT, EARL OF HUNTINGDON.

255

Scarlet recounts to Scathlock the pleasures of an Outlaw's life. Scarlet. It's full seven years since we were outlaws

first,

And wealthy Sherwood was our heritage.
For all those years we reigned uncontroll'd,
From Barnsdale shrogs to Nottingham's red cliffs.
At Blithe and Tickhill were we welcome guests;
Good George-a-green at Bradford was our friend,
And wanton Wakefield's Pinner loved us well.
At Barnsley dwells a Potter tough and strong,
That never brook'd we brethren should have wrong.
The Nuns of Farnsfield, pretty Nuns they be,
Gave napkins, shirts, and bands, to him and me.
Bateman of Kendal gave us Kendal green,
And Sharpe of Leeds sharp arrows for us made.
At Rotherham dwelt our Bowyer, God him bliss;
Jackson he hight, his bows did never miss.

Fitzwater, banished, seeking his daughter Matilda (Robin's
Marian) in the forest of Sherwood, makes his complaint.

Fitz. Well did he write, and mickle did he know,

That said "This world's felicity was woe,

Which greatest states can hardly undergo."
Whilom Fitzwater in fair England's Court
Possest felicity and happy state,

And in his hall blithe Fortune kept her sport;
Which glee one hour of woe did ruinate.
Fitzwater once had castles, towns, and towers;
Fair gardens, orchards, and delightful bowers;
But now nor garden, orchard, town, nor tower,
Hath poor Fitzwater left within his power.
Only wide walks are left me in the world,
Which these stiff limbs will hardly let me tread:

And when I sleep, heaven's glorious canopy
Me and my mossy couch doth overspread.

He discovers Robin Hood sleeping; Marian strewing flowen over him.

Fitz.

in good time see where my comfort stands, And by her lies dejected Huntingdon.

Look how my Flower holds flowers in her hands,
And flings those sweets upon my sleeping son.

Feigns himself blind, to try if she will know him.

Mar. What aged man art thou? or by what chance Camest thou thus far into the wayless wood?

Fitz. Widow, or wife, or maiden, if thou be;
Lend me thy hand: thou see'st I cannot see.
Blessing betide thee! little feel'st thou want:
With me, good child, food is both hard and scant.
These smooth even veins assure me, He is kind,
Whate'er he be, my girl, that thee doth find.
I poor
and old am reft of all earth's good:
And desperately am crept into this wood,

To seek the poor man's patron, Robin Hood.

Mar. And thou art welcome, welcome, aged man,

Aye ten times welcome to Maid Marian.

Here's wine to cheer thy heart; drink, aged man.
There's venison, and a knife; here's manchet fine.-
My Robin stirs I must sing him asleep.

Prior. What news with you, Sir?

Serv. Ev'n heavy news, my Lord; for the light fire, Falling in manner of a fire-drake

Upon a barn of yours, hath burnt six barns,

And not a strike of corn reserv'd from dust.

No hand could save it; yet ten thousand hands
Labour'd their best, though none for love of you:
For every tongue with bitter cursing bann'd
Your Lordship, as the viper of the land.
Prior. What meant the villains?

Serv. Thus and thus they cried:
Upon this churl, this hoarder up of corn,
This spoiler of the earl of Huntingdon,
This lust-defiled, merciless, false Prior,

Heav'n raineth judgment down in shape of fire."
Old wives that scarce could with their crutches creep,
And little babes that newly learn'd to speak,

Men masterless that thorough want did weep,
All in one voice with a confused cry.

In execrations bann'd you bitterly.

Plague follow plague," they cried; "he hath undone The good Lord Robert, Earl of Huntingdon."

PHILLIS OF SCYROS: A DRAMATIC PASTORAL.
AUTHOR UNKNOWN, 1655.

True Love irremoveable by Death.

SERPILLA. PHILLIS.

Ser. Thyrsis believes thee dead, and justly may

Within his youthful breast then entertain

New flames of love, and yet therein be free
From the least show of doing injury

To that rich beauty which he thinks extinct,
And happily hath mourn'd for long ago:
But when he shall perceive thee here alive,
His old lost love will then with thee revive.

Phil. That love, Serpilla, which can be removed

With the light breath of an imagined death,
Is but a faint weak love; nor care I much
Whether it live within, or still lie dead.
Ev'n I myself believ'd him long ago
Dead, and enclosed within an earthen urn ;
And yet, abhorring any other love,
I only loved that pale-faced beauty still;
And those dry bones, dissolved into dust:
And underneath their ashes kept alive
The lively flames of my still-burning fire.

Celia, being put to sleep by an ineffectual poison, waking believes herself to be among the dead. The old Shepherd Narete finds her, and re-assures her of her still being alive.

Shep. Celia, thou talkest idly; call again
Thy wandering senses; thou art yet alive.
And, if thou wilt not credit what I say,
Look up, and see the heavens turning round;
The sun descending down into the west,

Which not long since thou saw'st rise in the east;

Observe, that with the motion of the air

These fading leaves do fall :—

In the infernal region of the deep

The sun doth never rise, nor ever set;

Nor doth a falling leaf there e'er adorn

Those black eternal plants.

Thou still art on the earth 'mongst mortal men,

And still thou livest. I am Narete.

These

Are the sweet fields of Scyros. Know'st thou not

The meadow where the fountain springs? this wood?
Euro's great mountain, and Ormino's hill;

The hill where thou wert born?

Thyrsis, upbraided by Phillis, for loving another, while he supposed her dead, replies—

Thyrsis. O do not turn thy face another way.

Perhaps thou thinkest, by denying thus
That lovely visage to these eyes of mine,
To punish my misdeeds: but think not so.
Look on me still, and mark me what I say,
(For, if thou know'st it not, I'll tell thee then,)
A more severe revenger of thy wrongs

Thou canst not have than those fair eyes of thine,
Which by those shining beams that wound my heart
Punish me more than all the world can do.
What greater pain canst thou inflict on me,
Than still to keep as fire before my face
That lovely beauty, which I have betray'd;
That beauty, I have lost?

NIGHT breaks off her speech*.

Night. But stay! for there methinks I see the Sun, Eternal Painter, now begin to rise,

And limn the heavens in vermilion dye;
And having dipt his pencil, aptly framed,
Already in the colour of the morn,
With various temper he doth mix in one
Darkness and Light: and drawing curiously
Strait golden lines quite thro' the dusky sky,
A rough draught of the day he seems to yield,
With red and tawny in an azure field.—
Already, by the clattering of their bits,

Their gingling harness, and their neighing sounds,
I hear Eous and fierce Pirous

Come panting on my back; and therefore I
Must fly away. And yet I do not fly,

But follow on my regulated course,
And these eternal Orders I received

From the First Mover of the Universe.

In the Prologue.