_Simon_. I never thought but nobly of my brother, Touching his honor and fidelity. Still I could wish him charier of his person, And of his time more frugal, than to spend In riotous living, graceless society, And mirth unpalatable, hours better employ'd (With those persuasive graces nature lent him) In fervent pleadings for a father's life. _Sir W_. I would not owe my life to a jealous court, Whose shallow policy I know it is, On some reluctant acts of prudent mercy, (Not voluntary, but extorted by the times, In the first tremblings of new-fixed power, And recollection smarting from old wounds,) On these to build a spurious popularity. Unknowing what free grace or mercy mean, They fear to punish, therefore do they pardon. For this cause have I oft forbid my son, By letters, overtures, open solicitings, Or closet tamperings, by gold or fee, To beg or bargain with the court for my life. _Simon_. And John has ta'en you, father, at your word, True to the letter of his paternal charge. _Sir W_. Well, my good cause, and my good conscience, boy, Shall be for sons to me, if John prove false. Men die but once, and the opportunity Of a noble death is not an every-day fortune: It is a gift which noble spirits pray for. _Simon_. I would not wrong my brother by surmise; I know him generous, full of gentle qualities, Incapable of base compliances, No prodigal in his nature, but affecting This show of bravery for ambitious ends. He drinks, for 'tis the humor of the court, And drink may one day wrest the secret from him, And pluck you from your hiding-place in the sequel. _Sir W_. Fair death shall be my doom, and foul life his. Till when, we'll live as free in this green forest, As yonder deer, who roam unfearing treason: Who seem the aborigines of this place, Or Sherwood theirs by tenure. _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 W_. 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 W_. 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.