Is our earl Robert-or your Robin Hood—
That in those days was earl of Huntingdon.

ROBIN recounts to MARIAN the pleasures of a forest life. Robin. Marian, thou seest, though courtly pleasures want,

Yet country sport in Sherwood is not scant :
For the soul-ravishing delicious sound
Of instrumental music, we have found
The winged quiristers, with divers notes
Sent from their quaint recording pretty throats,
On every branch that compasseth our bower,
Without command contenting us each hour.
For arras hangings and rich tapestry,
We have sweet Nature's best embroidery.
For thy steel glass, wherein thou wont'st to look,
Thy crystal eyes gaze in a crystal brook.
At court, a flower or two did deck thy head,
Now with whole garlands it is circled:

For what we want in wealth, we have in flowers, And what we lose in halls, we find in bowers. Marian. Marian hath all, sweet Robert, having thee; And guesses thee as rich in having me.

SCARLET recounts to SCATHLOCK the pleasures of an Outlaw's life. Scarlet. It's full seven years since we were outlawed first,

And wealthy Sherwood was her 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 wo,
Which greatest states can hardly undergo.'
Whilom Fitzwater in fair England's court
Possess'd felicity and happy state,

And in his hall blithe Fortune kept her sport,
Which glee one hour of wo 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 flowers 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
Cam'st thou thus far into the wayless wood?

Fitz. Widow, or wife, or maiden, if thou be,
Lend me thy hand; thou seest 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.

A Judgment.

A Wicked Prior. Serving-man.

Prior. What news with you, sir ?

Serv. Even 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 reserved 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,

Heaven 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 cry, "he hath undone The good lord Robert, earl of Huntingdon.'

HOFFMAN'S TRAGEDY; OR, REVENGE FOR A FATHER.

BY HENRY CHETTLE, 1631.

The sons of the Duke of Saxony run away with LUCIBEL, the Duke of Austria's daughter.-The two dukes, in separate pursuit of their children, meet at the cell of a Hermit in which Hermit, Saxony recognises a banished brother; at which surprised, all three are reconciled. Aust. That should be Saxon's tongue.

Sax. Indeed I am the duke of Saxony.

Aust. Then art thou father to lascivious sons,
That have made Austria childless.

Sax. O subtle duke,

Thy craft appears in framing the excuse: Thou dost accuse my young sons' innocence. I sent them to get knowledge, learn the tongues, Not to be metamorphos'd with the view Of flattering beauty-peradventure painted. Aust. No, I defy thee, John of Saxony; My Lucibel for beauty needs no art, Nor, do I think, the beauties of her mind. Ever inclin'd to this ignoble course,

But by the charms and forcings of thy sons.

Sax. Oh, would thou durst maintain thy words, proud

duke!

Her. I hope, great princes, neither of you dare
Commit a deed so sacrilegious.

This holy cell

Is dedicated to the Prince of Peace;

The foot of man never profaned this floor,
Nor doth wrath here with his consuming voice
Affright these buildings; charity with prayer,
Humility with abstinence combin'd,

Are here the guardians of a grieved mind.
Aust. Father, we obey thy holy voice.
Duke John of Saxony, receive my faith;

Till our ears hear the true course, [which] thy sons
Have taken with my fond and misled child,

I proclaim truce. Why dost thou sullen stand?
If thou mean peace, give me thy princely hand.
Sax. Thus do I plight thee troth, and promise peace.
Aust. Nay, but thy eyes agree not with thy heart:
In vows of combination there's a grace

That shows the intention in the outward face.
Look cheerfully, or I expect no league.

Sax. First give me leave to view awhile the person
Of this Hermit-Austria, note him well :
Is he not like my brother Roderic?

Aust. He's like him, but I heard, he lost his life
Long since in Persia, by the Sophy's wars.
Her. I heard so much, my lords, but that report
Was purely feign'd, spread by my erring tongue,
As double as my heart, when I was young.
I am that Rod❜ric, that aspir'd your throne;
That vile false brother, who with rebel breath,
Drawn sword, and treacherous heart, threaten'd
your death.

Sax. My brother !—nay, then, i' faith, old John, lay by

Thy sorrowing thoughts, turn to thy wonted vein,
And be mad John of Saxony again.

Mad Roderic, art alive?-my mother's son,
Her joy, and her last birth ?-oh, she conjur'd me
To use thee thus, [embracing him] and yet I banish'd
thee !-

Body o' me! I was unkind, I know;

But thou deservedst it then; but let it go.
Say thou wilt leave this life, thus truly idle,
And live a statesman, thou shalt share in reign,
Commanding all but me thy sovereign.

Her. I thank your Highness; I will think on it:
But for my sins this sufferance is more fit.
Sax. Tut, tittle tattle, tell not me of sin.-