_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, rumors and popular noises, Books, creeds, opinions, prejudices national, Humors 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 W_. What pretty boy have we here? _Marg_. _Bon jour, messieurs_. Ye have handsome English faces, I should have ta'en ye else for other two, I came to seek in the forest. _Sir W_. Who are they? _Marg_. A gallant brace of Frenchmen, curl'd 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 W_. The face is Margaret's, but the dress the same My Stephen sometime wore. [_To_ Margaret. Suppose us them; whom do men say we are? Or know you what you seek? _Marg_. 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 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. [_Kneeling_. _Sir W_. Not at my feet, Margaret; not at my feet. _Marg_. Yes, till her suit is answered. _Sir W_. Name it. _Marg_. A little boon, and yet so great a grace, She fears to ask it. _Sir W_. Some riddle, Margaret? _Marg_. No riddle, but a plain request. _Sir W_. Name it. _Marg_. Free liberty of Sherwood, And leave to take her lot with you in the forest.