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Wil. Not a drop!

Win. Troth I bear thee a good will for thy honest, old, dead father's sake.

Wil. I do thankfully perceive it, sir. Your placing me in Sir Edward's family some nine months ago, when my poor father died, and left me friendless, will never out of my memory.

Win. Tut, boy! no merit of mine in assisting the friendless; 'tis our duty. I could never abide to see honest industry chop-fallen; I love to have folks merry about me, to my heart.

Wil. I would you could instil some mirth into our good master, Sir Edward. You are an old domestic, the only one he brought with him, two years back, from Kent; and might venture to give his spirits a jog. He seems devoured with spleen and melancholy.

Win. You are a prying boy-go to! I have told thee, a score of times, I would not have thee curious about our worthy master's humour.

Wil. I should cease to pray, sir, would you but once (as I think you have more than once seemed inclined,) gratify my much-raised curiosity.

Win. What, greenhorn! dost think to trap the old man? Go thy ways, boy! I have a head: old Adam Winterton can sift a subtle speech to the bottom.

Wil. Ah! good sir, you need not tell me that. Young as I am, I can admire that experience in another, which Ï want myself.

Win. [Aside.] There is something marvellously engaging in this young man. Sixty years ago, in Queen Elizabeth's time, I was just such another.-[Aloud.] Well, beware how you offend Sir Edward.

Wil. I would not, willingly, for the world. He has been the kindest master to me; but, whilst my fortunes ripen in the warmth of his goodness, the frozen gloom of his countenance chills me.

Win. Well, well, take heed how you prate on't. Out on these babbling boys! There is no keeping a secret with younkers in a family.

Wil. [Very eagerly.] What, then, there is a secret?

Win. Why, how now, hot-head? Mercy on me! an' this tinder-box boy do not make me shake with apprehension! Is it thus you take my frequent counsel?

Bar. [Rising and coming forward, L. c.] I am here, brother Samson.

Sam. Here!-Marry, out upon you for an idle baggage!-Why, you crawl like a snail.

Bar. I pr'ythee, now, do not chide me, Samson!

Sam. 'Tis my humour. I am father's head man in his poaching: the rubs I take from him, who is above me, I hand down to you, who are below me. 'Tis the way of

office, where every miserable devil domineers it over the next more miserable devil that's under him. You may scold sister Margery, an you will; she's your younger by a twelvemonth.

Bar. Truly, brother, I would not make any one unhappy for the world: I am content to do what I can to please, and to mind the house.

Thou art e'en ready

Sam. Truly, a weighty matter! to hang thyself for want of something to wile away time. What hast thou much more to do than to trim the faggots, nurse thy mother, boil the pot, patch our jackets, kill the poultry, cure the hogs, feed the pigs, and comb the children?

Bar. Many might think that no small charge, Samson. Sam. A mere nothing; while father and I (bate us but the mother and children,) have the credit of purloining every single thing that you have the care of. We are up early, and down late, in the exercise of our industry.

Bar I wish father and you would give up the calling. Sam. No there is one keen argument to prevent us. Bar. What's that, brother?

Sam. Hunger. Wouldst have us be rogues, and let our family starve? Give up poaching and deer-stealing!

Oons! dost think we have no conscience? Yonder sits mother, poor soul! old, helpless, and crazy.

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Bar. Alas! brother, 'tis heart-aching to look upon her. This very time three years she got her maim: it was a piteous tempest!

Sam. Ay, 'twas rough weather.

Bar. I never pass the old oak that was shivered that night in the storm, but I am ready to weep: it remembers me of the time when all our poor family went to ruin.

Sam. Pish! no matter: the cottage was blown down, the barn fired, father undone. Well, landlords are flintyhearted-n ~no help; what then ?-We live, don't we?

Win. That I would, though 'twere a mile to the bottom. [Drinking.] Ha! 'tis cheering, i'faith!

Wil. And this uncle, you say

Win. Of Madam Helen ?—Ah, there lies the mischief! Wil. What mischief can be in him?-[Wilford invites Adam to drink again-they do so.] Why, he is dead.

Win. Come nearer: see you prate not, now, on your life! Our good master, Sir Edward, was arraigned on his account, in open court.

Wil. Arraigned!-How mean you?

Win. Alas! boy, tried-tried for-nearer yet-his

murder!

Wil. Mu-mur-murder!

Win. Why, what! why, Wilford !-Out, alas ! the boy's passion will betray all! What, Wilford, I say! Wil. You have curdled my blood!

Win. What, varlet! thou darest not think ill of our worthy master?

Wil. I—I am his secretary; often alone with him, at dead midnight, in his library; the candles in the sockets; and a man glaring upon me who has committed murUgh! [Crosses to R. Win. Committed!-Thou art a base, lying knave to say it! Well, well; hear me, pettish boy, hear me.Why, look now, thou dost not attend.

Wil. I-I mark—I mark.

Win. I tell thee, then, our good Sir Edward was beloved in Kent, where he had returned, a year before, from his travels. Madam Helen's uncle was hated by all the neighbourhood, rich and poor-a mere brute. Dost mark me?

Wil. Like enough; but when brutes walk upon two legs, the law of the land, thank Heaven! will not suffer us to butcher them.

Win. Go to, you firebrand! Our good master laboured all he could, for many a month, to sooth his turbulence, but in vain. He picked a quarrel with Sir Edward in the public county assembly; nay, the strong ruffian struck him down, and trampled on him. Think on that, Wilford; on our good master, Sir Edward, whose great soul was nigh to burst with the indignity!

Wil. Well, but the end on't?

Raw. Under the furze, behind the hovel. Come night again, we will draw him in, boy. I have been watched.

Sam. Watched!-Oh, the pestilence!-Our trade will be spoiled if the groom-keepers be after us; the law will persecute us, father.

Raw. Dost know Mortimer ?

Sam. What, Sir Edward Mortimer? Ay, sure; he is head-keeper of the forest. 'Tis he who has shut himself up in melancholy; sees no rich, and does so much good to the poor.

Raw. He has done me naught but evil. A gun cannot be carried on the border here, but he has scent on't at a league's distance. He is a thorn to me: his scouts this night were after me, all on the watch. I'll be revengedI'll-So, the brandy.

Re-enter BARBARA, with the liquor, L. U. E.

Raw. [After drinking.] 'Tis right, i'faith!

Sam. (R.) That 'tis, I'll be sworn; for I smuggled it myself. We do not live so near the coast for nothing. Raw. Sir Edward Mortimer, look to it!

Bar. (L.) Sir Edward Mortimer!

what of him?

Oh, dear father,

Raw. Ay, now thou art all agog! Thou wouldst hear somewhat of that smooth-tongued fellow, his secretaryhis clerk, Wilford, whom thou so often meet'st in the forest. I have news on't. Look how you walk thither again! What, thou wouldst betray me to him, I warrant -conspire against your father!

Sam. Ay, conspire against your father, and your tender loving brother, you viper, you!

Bar. Beshrew me, father, I meant no harm; and, indeed, indeed, Wilford is as handsome a-I mean, as good a youth as ever breathed.

you, I should hate him.

If I thought he meant ill by

Raw. When didst see him last?-Speak!

Bar. You terrify me so, father, I am scarce able to speak. Yesternoon, by the copse: 'twas but to read with him the book of sonnets he gave me.

Sam. That's the way your sly, grave rogues, work into the hearts of the females. I never knew any good come of a girl's reading sonnets with a learned clerk in a copse.

Raw. Let me hear no more of your meeting. I am content to think you would not plot my undoing.

Bar. I ?—Oh, father!

Raw. But he may plot yours. Mark me: fortune has thrust me forth to prowl, like the wolf; but the wolf is anxious for its young. I am an outcast, whom hunger has hardened; I violate the law, but feeling is not dead within me; and callous villain as I am accounted, I would tear that greater villain piecemeal, who would violate my child, and rob an old man of the little remains of comfort wretchedness has left him! [A knocking at the door, R. F. A voice. Without.] Hilliho! ho!

Raw. How now ?

Sam. There, an they be not after us already! I'llWe have talked, too, till 'tis broad daylight.

Wilford. [Without, R. D. F.] Open, good Master Rawbold; I would speak to you suddenly.

Bar. Oh, Heaven! 'tis the voice of Wilford himself! Raw. Wilford!-I'm glad on't! Now he shall-I'm glad on't! Open the door-quickly, I say! He shall smart for it!

Sam. Are you mad, father? 'Tis we shall smart for it. Let in the keeper's head man! The buck you have just shot, you know, is hard at hand.

Raw. Open, I say!

Sam. Oh, lord! I defy any secretary's nose not to smell stolen venison now, the moment 'tis thrust near our hovel! [Opens the door, R. F.

Enter WILFORD, R. D. F.

Wil. (R. C.) Save you, good people. You are Gilbert Rawbold, as I take it.

Raw. (c.) I am. Your message here, young man, bodes me no good; but I am Gilbert Rawbold, and here's my daughter: dost know her?

Wil. Ah, Barbara! good wench, how fares it with you? Raw. Look on her well, then consult your own conscience: 'tis difficult, haply, for a secretary to find one. You are a villain!

Wil. You lie! Hold! I crave pardon. You are her father; she is innocent, and you are unhappy. I respect virtue and misfortune too much to shock the one, or insult the other,

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