_Lovel_. I will but adjust my dress, and attend you. [_Exit_ LOVEL. _John Wood_. (_alone._) Now universal England getteth drunk For joy, that Charles, her monarch, is restored: And she, that sometime wore a saintly mask, The stale-grown vizor from her face doth pluck, And weareth now a suit of morris bells, With which she jingling goes through all her towns and villages. The baffled factions in their houses skulk; The commonwealthsman, and state machinist. The cropt fanatic, and fifth-monarchy-man, Who heareth of these visionaries now? They and their dreams have ended. Fools do sing, Where good men yield God thanks; but politic spirits, Who live by observation, note these changes Of the popular mind, and thereby serve their ends. Then why not I? What's Charles to me, or Oliver, But as my own advancement hangs on one of them? I to myself am chief.----I know, Some shallow mouths cry out, that I am smit With the gauds and show of state, the point of place, And trick of precedence, the ducks, and nods Which weak minds pay to rank. 'Tis not to sit In place of worship at the royal masques, Their pastimes, plays, and Whitehall banquetings, For none of these, Nor yet to be seen whispering with some great one, Do I affect the favors of the court. I would be great, for greatness hath great _power_, And that's the fruit I reach at.-- Great spirits ask great play-room. Who could sit, With these prophetic swellings in my breast, That prick and goad me on, and never cease, To the fortunes something tells me I was born to? Who, with such monitors within to stir him, Would sit him down, with lazy arms across, A unit, a thing without a name in the state, A something to be govern'd, not to govern, A fishing, hawking, hunting, country gentleman? [_Exit._ SCENE.--_Sherwood Forest._ SIR WALTER WOODVIL. SIMON WOODVIL. (_Disguised as Frenchmen._) _Sir W_. How fares my boy, Simon, my youngest born, My hope, my pride, young Woodvil, speak to me? Some grief untold weighs heavy at thy heart: I know it by thy alter'd cheer of late. Thinkest thy brother plays thy father false? It is a mad and thriftless prodigal, Grown proud upon the favors of the court; Court manners, and court fashions, he affects, And in the heat and uncheck'd blood of youth, Harbors a company of riotous men, All hot, and young, court-seekers, like himself, Most skilful to devour a patrimony; And these have eat into my old estates, And these have drain'd thy father's cellars dry; But these so common faults of youth not named, (Things which themselves outgrow, left to themselves,) I know no quality that stains his honor. My life upon his faith and noble mind, Son John could never play thy father false.