_Simon_. Not many; some few, as thus:-- To see the sun to bed, and to arise, Like some hot amorist with glowing eyes, Bursting the lazy bands of sleep that bound him, With all his fires and travelling glories round him. Sometimes the moon on soft night clouds to rest, Like beauty nestling in a young man's breast, And all the winking stars, her handmaids, keep Admiring silence, while those lovers sleep. Sometimes outstretcht, in very idleness, Nought doing, saying little, thinking less, To view the leaves, thin dancers upon air, Go eddying round; and small birds, how they fare, When mother Autumn fills their beaks with corn, Filch'd from the careless Amalthea's horn; And how the woods berries and worms provide Without their pains, when earth has nought beside To answer their small wants. To view the graceful deer come tripping by, Then stop, and gaze, then turn, they know not why, Like bashful younkers in society. To mark the structure of a plant or tree, And all fair things of earth, how fair they be. _Marg_. (_smiling_.) And, afterwards, them paint in simile. _Sir W_. Mistress Margaret will have need of some refreshment. Please you, we have some poor viands within. _Marg_. Indeed I stand in need of them. _Sir W_. Under the shade of a thick-spreading tree, Upon the grass, no better carpeting, We'll eat our noontide meal; and, dinner done, One of us shall repair to Nottingham, To seek some safe night-lodging in the town, Where you may sleep, while here with us you dwell, By day, in the forest, expecting better times, And gentler habitations, noble Margaret. _Simon_. _Allons_, young Frenchman---- _Marg_. _Allons_, Sir Englishman. The time has been I've studied love-lays in the English tongue, And been enamor'd of rare poesy: Which now I must unlearn. Henceforth, Sweet mother-tongue, old English speech, adieu; For Margaret has got new name and language new. [_Exeunt_. * * * * * ACT THE THIRD. SCENE.--_An Apartment of State in Woodvil Hall_. _Cavaliers drinking_. JOHN WOODVIL, LOVEL, GRAY, _and four more_. _John_. More mirth, I beseech you, gentlemen--Mr. Gray, you are not merry.-- _Gray_. More wine, say I, and mirth shall ensue in course. What! we have not yet above three half-pints a man to answer for. Brevity is the soul of drinking, as of wit. Despatch, I say. More wine. (_Fills_.) _1st Gent_. I entreat you, let there be some order, some method, in our drinkings. I love to lose my reason with my eyes open, to commit the deed of drunkenness with forethought and deliberation. I love to feel the fumes of the liquor gathering here, like clouds. _2nd Gent_. And I am for plunging into madness at once. Damn order, and method, and steps, and degrees, that he speaks of. Let confusion have her legitimate work.