SIMON 'Tis said, that Robert Earl of Huntingdon, Men call'd him Robin Hood, an outlaw bold, With a merry crew of hunters here did haunt, Not sparing the king's venison. May one believe The antique tale? SIR WALTER There is much likelihood, Such bandits did in England erst abound, When polity was young. I have read of the pranks Of that mad archer, and of the tax he levied On travellers, whatever their degree, Baron, or knight, whoever pass'd these woods, Layman, or priest, not sparing the bishop's mitre For spiritual regards; nay, once, 'tis said, He robb'd the king himself. SIMON A perilous man. (_Smiling_.) SIR WALTER How quietly we live here, Unread in the world's business, And take no note of all its slippery changes. 'Twere best we make a world among ourselves, A little world, Without the ills and falsehoods of the greater: We two being all the inhabitants of ours, And kings and subjects both in one. SIMON Only the dangerous errors, fond conceits, Which make the business of that greater world, Must have no place in ours: As, namely, riches, honors, birth, place, courtesy, Good fame and bad, rumours and popular noises, Books, creeds, opinions, prejudices national, Humours particular, Soul-killing lies, and truths that work small good, Feuds, factions, enmities, relationships, Loves, hatreds, sympathies, antipathies, And all the intricate stuff quarrels are made of. (_Margaret enters in boy's apparel_.) SIR WALTER What pretty boy have we here? MARGARET _Bon jour, messieurs_. Ye have handsome English faces, I should have ta'en you else for other two, I came to seek in the forest. SIR WALTER Who are they? MARGARET A gallant brace of Frenchmen, curled monsieurs, That, men say, haunt these woods, affecting privacy, More than the manner of their countrymen. SIMON We have here a wonder. The face is Margaret's face. SIR WALTER The face is Margaret's, but the dress the same My Stephen sometimes wore. (_To Margaret_) Suppose us them; whom do men say we are? Or know you what you seek? MARGARET A worthy pair of exiles, Two whom the politics of state revenge, In final issue of long civil broils, Have houseless driven from your native France, To wander idle in these English woods, Where now ye live; most part Thinking on home, and all the joys of France, Where grows the purple vine. SIR WALTER 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?