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Wil. Eh! Barbara! How camest thou here? Bar. With my father, who waits below to see Sir Edward.

Well, what have I to do with the knowledge on 't! What could I do? Cut off my benefactor, who gives me bread-who is respected for his virtues, pitied for his misfortunes, loved by his family, Wil. He he is busied; he cannot see him blessed by the poor! Pooh! he is innocent. This now; he is with his brother.

is his pride and shame. He was acquitted; thou- Bar. Troth, I am sorry for it. My poor father's sands witnessed it-thousands rejoiced at it-heart is bursting with gratitude; and he would thousands Eh! the key left in the iron chest! fain ease it by pouring out his thanks to his benCircumstance and mystery tempt me at every efactor. Oh, Wilford! yours is a happy lot, to turn. Ought I? No matter; these are no com- have such a master as Sir Edward! mon incitements, and I submit to the impulse. I heard him stride down the stairs. It opens with a spring, I see. I tremble in every joint!

[Goes to the chest, L. C.

Wil. Happy? Oh, yes-I-I am very happy.
Bar. Mercy! has any ill befallen you?
Wil. No, nothing.

Bar. Nay, I'm sure there's more in this. Bless me! you look pale. I couldn't bear to see you ill or uneasy, Wilford.

Re-enter SIR EDWARD MORTIMER, R. D. F.
Sir E. I had forgot the key, and- [Seeing
WILFORD at the chest.] Ha! by h-1! [Snatches
a pistol from the table, L., runs up to him, and be better presently; 'tis nothing of import.

Wil. Couldn't you, Barbara? Well, well, I shall

holds it to his head.

WILFORD, on his knees, claps

Bar. Trust me, I hope not.

down the lid of the trunk, which he has just open-seech you, Barbara. Wil. Well, question me no more on 't now, ed. After an apparent struggle of mind, MORTIMER throws the pistol from him. Begone! [WILFORD crosses to R.] Come backcome hither to me!

Mark me I see thou dost at every turn,
And I have noted thee, too. Thou hast found
(I know not how) some clue to my disgrace-
Aye, my disgrace! We must not mince it now.
Public dishonor! trod on! buffeted!

Then tried as the foul demon who had foiled
My manly means of vengeance! Anguish gnaws

me;

Mountains of shame are piled upon me-me,
Who have made fame my idol! 'Twas enough,
But something must be superadded. You-
A worm-a viper I have warmed, must plant,
In venomed sport, your sting into my wounds,
Too tender e'en for tenderness to touch,

And work me into madness! Thou wouldst ques-
tion

My very (slave!)-my very innocence,
Ne'er doubted yet by judges nor arraigners.
Wretch you have wrung this from me; be con-
tent-

I am sunk low enough.

I be

Bar. Believe me, I would not question you but to console you, Wilford. I would scorn to pry into any one's grief, much more yours, Wilford, to satisfy a busy curiosity; though I am told there are such in the world who would.

Wil. I-I am afraid there are, Barbara. But come, no more of this; 'tis a passing cloud on my spirits, and will soon blow over.

Bar. Ah! could I govern your fortunes, foul weather should ne'er harm you.

Wil. Should not it, sweet? Kiss me. [Kissing her.] The lips of a woman are a sovereign cordial for melancholy.

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Yet, dearest Barbara, look all through the nation,
Care, soon or late, my love, is every man's lot.
Sorrow and melancholy, grief and vexation,
When we are young and jolly soon is forgot.
When you grow old, love, then what will you say?
Tattle to you, love,

Wil. [returning the key.] Oh, sir? I ever
Honored and loved you; but I merit all;
My passions hurried me I know not whither.

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And prattle to you. o e,

And laugh your grief and care away.

Wil. Sweet little Barbara, etc.

Bar. Poor little Barbara, etc.

[Exeunt BARBARA, L., WILFORD, R. d. f.

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Arm. [c.] Go to! I tell thee, Orson (as I have told thee more than once), thou art too sanguinary.

Ors. [L.] And I tell you, Captain Armstrongbut always under favor, you being our leader-you are too humane.

Arm. Humanity is scarcely counted a fault; if so, 'tis a fault on the right side.

Ors. Umph! Perhaps not with us; we are robbers.

Arm. And why should robbers lack humanity? They who plunder most respect it as a virtue, and

make a show on 't to gild their vices. Lawyers, the world trample on me; it has driven me to take physicians, placemen, all-all plunder and slay, but all pretend to humanity.

Ors. They are regulars and plunder by license. Arm. Then let us quacks set the regulars a better example.

Ors. This humanity, Captain, is a high horse you are ever bestride upon; some day, mark my word, he'll fling you.

Arm. Cruelty is a more dangerous beast. When the rider is thrown, his brains are kicked out, and no one pities him.

Ors. Like enough; but your tough horseman, When who ventures boldly, is never dismounted. I am engaged in a desperate chase (as we are, Captain) I stick at nothing. I hate milksops.

Arm. And love mutiny. Take heed, Qrson; I have before cautioned you not to glance at me.

Ors. I say nothing; but if some escape to inform against us whom we have robbed, 'tis none of my fault. Dead men tell no tales.

that desperately, which wanting I should starve. Death! my spirit cannot brook to see a sleek knave walk negligently by his fellow in misery, and suffer him to rot. I will wrench that comfort from him which he will not bestow. But nature puts a bar; let him administer to my wants, and pass on; I have done with him!

SONG. ARMSTRONG.

When the robber his victim has noted,
When the freebooter darts on his prey,
Let humanity spare the devoted,
Let mercy forbid him to slay.

Since my hope is by penury blighted,
My sword must the traveler daunt;
I will snatch from the rich man benighted
The gold he denies to my want.

But the victim when once I have noted,
At my foot when I look on my prey,
Let humanity spare the devoted,

Let mercy forbid me to slay!

Arm. Wretch! [Holding a carbine to his head.] SCENE II.-The hall in SIR EDWARD MORTIMER'S Speak that again, and you shall tell none!

Ors. Flash away! I don't fear death.

Arm. More shame for thee; for thou art unfit to meet it!

Ors. I know my trade; I set powder, ball and rope at defiance.

Arm. Brute! you mistake headstrong insensibility for courage. Do not mistake my horror of it for cowardice; for I, who shudder at cruelty, will fell your boldness to the earth when I see you practice it. Submit!

Ors. I do. But my courage was never yet doubted, Captain.

Arm. Your nerves, fool! Thou art a mere machine; could I but give it motion, I would take an oak from the forest here, clap a flint into it for a heart, and make as bold a fellow as thou art. Listen to my orders.

Ors. I obey.

Arm. Get thee to our den, [ORSON crosses to R.] put on thy disguise, then hie thee to the market-town for provision for our company. Here -here is part of the spoil we took yesternight; [giving money] see you bring an honest account of what you lay out.

Ors. My honor!

Arm. Well, I do not doubt thee, here. Our profession is singular-its followers do not cheat one another. You will not be back till dusk; see you fall not on any poor straggling peasant as you return.

Ors. I would fain encounter the solitary man who is sometimes wandering by night about the forest; he is rich.

Arm. Not for your life! 'Tis Sir Edward Mortimer, the head keeper. Touch him not-'tis too near home; besides, he is no object for plunder. He is good to the poor, and should walk unmolested by charity's charter. "Twere pity that he who administers to necessity all day should be rifled by necessity at night. An' thou shouldst meet him, I charge thee spare him.

Ors. I must, if it be your order. The profession will soon tumble into decay when thieves grow tender-hearted. When a man drives the trade of a wolf, he should not go to his business like a lamb. [Exit R. Arm. This fellow is a downright villain, hardened and relentless. I have felt in my penury

lodge.

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Go to your master, pray him to dispatch
Fitz. There-they never can!
His household work; tell him I hate fat folios.
Plague! when I cross the country here to see him,
He leaves me rammed into an elbow-chair,
Then tumbles on my toes!
With a huge heavy book that makes me nod,
Tell him-dost hear?
Captain Fitzharding's company has tired me.
Gre. Whose company?
Fitz. My own, knave.
Gre. Sir, I shall.

[Exit R.

Fitz. A book to me's a sovereign narcotic,
A lump of opium-every line a dose.
Edward is all deep reading. Poor fellow !
Grief will do much. Well, some it drives to

And some to drinking. Plague upon 't! this house
reading,
Appears the very cave of melancholy!
Nay, hold, I lie! Here comes a petticoat.

Enter BLANCH, R., and crosses to L.
Od! a rare wench! This is the best edition
In Edward's whole collection. Here, come hither,
Let me peruse you.

Blanch. Would you speak to me, sir?

Fitz. Aye, child. I'm going now to read you.
Blanch. Read me?

You'll find me full of errors, sir.
Fitz. No matter.

Come nearer, child; I cannot see to read
At such a distance.

Blanch. You had better, sir,

Put on your spectacles.

Fitz. [aside.] Aye, there she has me!

A plague upon old Time! Old Scythe and Hourglass

Has set his mark upon me! [Aloud.] Hark ye, child;

You do not know me; you and I must have
Better acquaintance.

Blanch. Oh, I've heard of you.

You are Sir Edward's kinsman, sir-his brother. Fitz. Aye, his half-brother by the mother's side,

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Why, is not this thy home?

Blanch. No, sir. I live

Some half mile hence, with madame Helen, sir.
I brought a letter from her to Sir Edward.
Fitz. Odso! with Helen? So, with her! the
object

Of my grave brother's groaning passion! Plague!

I would 'twere in the house. I do not like
Your pastoral rheumatic assignations,
Under an elm, by moonlight! This will end
In flannels and sciatica. My passion
Is not Arcadian. Tell me, pretty one,
Shall I walk with you home?

Blanch. No, sir, I thank you;

It would fatigue you sadly.

Fitz. Fatigue me!

[Aside.] Oons! this wild forest filly here would

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Could I but see my face now in a glass,
That I look wondrous sheepish. I'm ashamed
To pick up the two pieces. Let them lie.
I would not wrong the innocent; good reason-
There be so few that are so. She is honest;
I must make reparation. Odso! Wilford!
Enter WILFOrd, L.

How fares it, boy?

Your health, these three months past, since last
Wil. I thank you, sir. I hope you have enjoyed
With your good presence at the lodge.
you honored us

Some cramps and shooting pains, boy-I have
Fitz. Indifferent;
dropped

Some cash here, but I am afraid to bend
To pick it up again, lest it should give me
An awkward twinge. Stoop for it, honest Wilford,
There's a good lad.

Wil. Right willingly, sir.

[Crosses to R., and picks up the money. Fitz. So,

Now carry it, I prithee, at your leisure,
The soldier and the justice save their blushes!

To an old gossip near the lodge here-northward;
I've heard of her; she's bed-ridden and sick.
You need not say who sent you.

Wil. I conceive.

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Fitz. Not? No, to be sure. Wil. You shall know all, sir. nothing;

In faith, you shall know all.

Fitz. In faith you lie!

Why, 'tis a secret. 'Twas a trifle

[Crosses to SIR EDWARD. Be satisfied, good Edward; 'tis a toy; But of all men, I would not have thee know on 't; It is a tender subject.

Sir E. [R.] Aye, indeed!

Fitz. May not I have my secret? Oons! good brother,

What would you say now, should a meddling knave

Busy his brains with matters, though but trivial, Which concern you alone?

Sir E. I'd have him rot

Die piecemeal-pine-moulder in misery!
Agent and sacrifice to heaven's wrath.
When castigating plagues are hurled on man,
Stands lean and lynx-eyed Curiosity,
Watching his neighbor's soul; sleepless himself,
To banish sleep from others. Like a leech,
Sucking the blood-drops from a careworn heart,
He gorges on 't; then renders up his food
To nourish Calumny, his foul-lunged mate,
Who carries Rumor's trumpet; and whose breath,
Infecting the wide surface of the world,
Strikes pestilence and blight! Oh, fie on 't! fie!
Whip me the curious wretch from pole to pole,
Who writhes in fire and scorches all around him,
A victim, making victims!

Fitz. By the mass,

May no mischance e'er ruffle it, my brother!
I've known thee from my infancy, old soldier;
And never did I know-I do not flatter-
A heart more stout, more cased with hardy man-
hood,

More full of milk within. Trust me, dear friend,
If admiration of thy charity

May argue charity in the admirer,
I am not destitute.

Fitz. You! I have seen you
Sometimes o'erflow with it.

Sir E. And what avails it?

Honor has been my theme-good-will to man
My study. I have labored for a name

As white as mountain snow, dazzling and speck

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I came on purpose, thirty miles from home,
To jog your spirits. Prithee, now, be gay;
And, prithee, too, be kind to my young favorite-
To Wilford there.

Sir E. Well, well; I hope I have been.

Fitz. No doubt, in actions, but in words and looks.

A rugged look's a damper to a greenhorn.

I watched him now, when you frown'd angrily,

"Twere a sound whipping that, from pole to pole! And he betrayedFrom constable to constable might serve.

Sir E. Your pardon, brother;

I had forgot. Wilford, I've business for you;

Wait for me--aye--an hour after dinner,
Wait for me in the library.

Wil. [aside.] The library!

I sicken at the sound! [Aloud.] Wait there for you-and

Captain Fitzharding, sir?

Sir E. For me alone!

Wil. Alone, sir?

Sir E. Yes. Begone!

Wil. I shall, sir. [Aside to SIR EDWARD, R.] But if I have ever breathed a syllable

That might displease you, may

Sir E. Fool! breathe no more!
Wil. I'm dumb.

[Aside.] I'd rather step into a lion's den

Than meet him in the library! [Aloud.] I go, sir. [Exit R.

Fitz. Brother, you are too harsh with that poor boy.

Sir E. Brother, a man must rule his family
In his own way.

Fitz. Well, well, well; don't be touchy.
I speak not to offend; I only speak
On a friend's privilege. The poor are men,
And have their feelings, brother.

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Sir E. Betrayed!

Fitz. Ten thousand fears.

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HELEN'S Cottage.

SCENE III.
Enter HELEN and SAMSON, L.

Hel. Are you he that wish to enter in my service?

Sam. Yes, so please you, madame Helen, for want of a better.

Hel. Why, I have seen you in the forest, at Rawbold's cottage. He is your father, as I think? Sam. Yes, so please you, madame, for want of a better.

Hel. I fear me, you may well say that. Your father, as I have heard, bears an ill name in the

Sir E. Brother, your hand. You have a gentle forest. nature;

Sam. Alas! madame, he is obliged to bear it

for want of a better. We are all famished, madame; and the naked and hungry have seldom many friends to speak well of them.

Hel. If I should hire thee, who will give thee a character?

Sam. My father, madame.

Hel. Why, sirrah, he has none of his own. Sam. The more fatherly in him, madame, to give his son what he has need of for himself. But å knave is often applied to, to vouch for a good servant's honesty. I will serve you as faithfully as your last footman, who, I have heard, ran away this morning.

Hel. Truly, he did so.

Sam. I was told on 't some half hour ago, and ran, hungrily, hither, to offer myself. So, please you, let not poverty stand in the way of my preferment.

Hel. Should I entertain you, what could you do to make yourself useful?

Sam. Anything; I can wire hares, snare partridges, shoot a buck, and smuggle brandy for you, madame.

Hel. Fie on you, knave! 'Twere fitter to turn you over to the verderors of the forest for punishment, than to encourage you in such practices.

Sam. I would practice anything better that might get me bread. I would scrape trenchers, fill buckets, and carry a message. What can a

man do? He can't starve.

Hel. Well, sirrah, to snatch thee from evil, I care not if I make a trial of thee.

Sam. No! will you?

Hel. Nineteen in twenty might question my prudence for this; but whatever loss I may suffer from thy roguery, the thought of having opened a path to lead a needy wanderer back to virtue will more than repay me.

Sam. Oh, bless you, lady! If I do not prove virtuous, never trust in man more! [Kneeling.] I am overjoyed!

Hel. Get thee to the kitchen; you will find a livery there will suit you.

Sam. [rising.] A livery! Oh, the father! Virtuous and a livery, all in a few seconds! Heaven bless you!

Hel. Well, get you to your work.

Sam. I go, madame. If I break anything today, beseech you let it go for nothing; for joy makes my hand tremble. Should you want me, please to cry Samson, and I am with you in a twinkling. Heaven bless you! Here's fortune!

[Exit L.

Hel. Blanch stays a tedious time. Heaven send Mortimer's health be not worse! He is sadly altered since we came to the forest. I dreamed last night of the fire he saved me from; and I saw him, all fresh, in manly bloom, bearing me through the flames, even as it once happened. Enter BLANCH, L.

How now, wench? You have almost tired my patience.

Blanch. And my own legs, madame. If the old footman had not made so much use of his, by running away, they might have spared mine. Hel. Inform me of Sir Edward Mortimer.

Hast seen him?

Blanch. Yes, I have, madame.

What said he, Blanch? Will he be here to-day? Blanch. A little breath, madame, and I will answer all duly.

Hel. Oh, fie upon thee, wench!
These interrogatories should be answered
Quicker than breath can utter them.
Blanch. That's impossible, lady.

Hel. Thou wouldst not say so, hadst thou ever loved.

Love has a fleeter messenger than speech
To tell love's meaning; his expresses post
Upon the orbs of vision, ere the tongue
Can shape them into words. A lover's look
Is his heart's Mercury. Oh! the eye's eloquence,
Twin-born with thought, outstrips the tardy voice,
Far swifter than the nimble lightning's flash-
The sluggish thunder-peal that follows it!

Blanch. I am not skilled in eye-talking, madame. I have been used to let my discourse ride upon my tongue; and I have been told 'twill trot at a good round pace upon occasion.

Hel. Then let it gallop now, beseech you, wench,

And bring me news of Mortimer.

Blanch. Then, madame, I saw Sir Edward in his library, and delivered your letter. He will be here, either in the evening or on the morrow'tis uncertain which, for his brother, Captain Fitzharding, is arrived on a visit to him. But Sir Edward's letter may chance to specify further particulars. Fie upon

Hel. His letter? has he written? thee!

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Now for your letter.

[Exit R.

Blanch. I would they were wedded once, and all this trembling would be over. I am told your married lady's feelings are little roused in reading letters from a husband.

Re-enter SAMSON, L., dressed in a livery.

Sam. This sudden turn of fortune might puff some men up with pride. I have looked in the glass already, and if ever man looked braver in a glass than I, I know nothing of finery.

Blanch. Hey-day! who have we here?

Sam. Oh, lord! this is the maid--I mean the waiting-woman. I warrant we shall be rare company in a long winter's evening.

Blanch. Why, who are you?

Sam. I'm your fellow-servant-the new-comer. The last footman cast his skin in the pantry this morning, and I have crept into it.

Blanch. Why, sure, it cannot be! Now I look upon you again, you are Samson Rawbold, old Rawbold's son, of the forest here.

Sam. The same. I am not like some upstarts;

How looked he? How's his health? Is he in when I am prosperous, I do not turn my back on

Hel. Say-tell me,

spirits?

my poor relations.

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