_Sir W_. These woods, young stranger, And grassy pastures, which the slim deer loves, Are they less beauteous than the land of France, Where grows the purple vine?
_Marg_. I cannot tell. To an indifferent eye both show alike. 'Tis not the scene, But all familiar objects in the scene, Which now ye miss, that constitute a difference. Ye had a country, exiles, ye have none now; Friends had ye, and much wealth, ye now have nothing; Our manners, laws, our customs, all are foreign to you, I know ye loathe them, cannot learn them readily; And there is reason, exiles, ye should love Our English earth less than your land of France, Where grows the purple vine; where all delights grow Old custom has made pleasant.
_Sir W_. You, that are read So deeply in our story, what are you?
_Marg_. A bare adventurer; in brief a woman, That put strange garments on, and came thus far To seek an ancient friend: And having spent her stock of idle words, And feeling some tears coming, Hastes now to clasp Sir Walter Woodvil's knees, And beg a boon for Margaret; his poor ward.
_Sir W_. Not at my feet, Margaret; not at my feet.
_Marg_. A little boon, and yet so great a grace, She fears to ask it.
_Marg_. Free liberty of Sherwood, And leave to take her lot with you in the forest.
_Sir W_. A scant petition, Margaret; but take it, Seal'd with an old man's tears.-- Rise, daughter of Sir Rowland.
O you most worthy, You constant followers of a man proscribed, Following poor misery in the throat of danger; Fast servitors to crazed and penniless poverty, Serving poor poverty without hope of gain; Kind children of a sire unfortunate; Green clinging tendrils round a trunk decay'd, Which needs must bring on you timeless decay; Fair living forms to a dead carcass joined;-- What shall I say? Better the dead were gather'd to the dead, Than death and life in disproportion meet.-- Go, seek your fortunes, children.--
_Sir W_. _You_ to the court, where now your brother John Commits a rape on Fortune.
_Simon_. Luck to John! A light-heel'd strumpet when the sport is done.
_Sir W_. _You_ to the sweet society of your equals, Where the world's fashion smiles on youth and beauty.
_Marg_. Where young men's flatteries cozen young maids' beauty. There pride oft gets the vantage hand of duty, There sweet humility withers.