MARIAN

Know you, or can you guess, my merry men, What it's that keeps your Master Robin-hood So long both from his Marian, and the Wood? Let's rouse him quickly, and lay on the Hounds. My loved Robin! How hath this morning paid me, for my rising! First, with my sports; but most with meeting you! I did not half so so well reward my hounds, As she hath me to day: although I gave them All the sweet morsels, called Tongue, Ears, and Dowcets! Yes. You are a wanton. Oh Robin! Robin! Could you so long be absent? How long are Lovers weeks! Do you think Robin, when they are asunder? Are they not Prisoners years? That have God leave to play, and so we use them. A lusty Stag? In a full cry. Old and sure, I love No young rash dogs, no more then changing friends. He is good Venison, According to the season in the blood, I'll promise all your friends, for whom he fell. Worth mark? You'll not hear? You do know, as soon As the Assay is taken. He kisses her again. You stop ones mouth, And yet you bid them speak—when the Arbours made. He that undoes him; Does cleave the brisket-bone, upon the spoon Of which, a little gristle grows, you call it— Now, over head sat a Raven! On a sere bough! a grown great Bird! and Hoarse! Who, all the while the Dear was breaking up, So crooked and cried for't, as all the huntsmen, (Especially old Scathlocke ) thought it ominous! Swore it was Mother Maudlin; whom he met, At the Day-dawne; just as he roused the Dear, Out of his Lair: but we made shift to run him Off his four legs, and sunk him ever we left. Is the Dear come? Will you go see him Mellifleur? Come Amy, you'll go with us? Friend, cheer your friends up, we will eat him merrily, My Hunt? what tale? A fit one, Sir, for you. To Scathe lock. Hand off rude Ranger! Sirrah, get you in And bear the Venison hence. It is too good For these course rustic mouths that cannot open, Or spend a thank for't. A starved Muttons carcase Would better fit their palates. See it carried To Mother Maudlins, whom you call the Witch, Sir. Tell her I sent it to make merry with, Shee'll turn us thanks at least! why standest thou, Groom? Yes, and you are the spy: And the spied Spy, that watch upon my walks, To inform what Dear I kill, or give away! Where! when! to whom! but spy your worst, good Spy! I will dispose of this where least you Like! Fallen to your cheesecakes, curds, and clawted cream, Your fools, your flaunes; and of ale a stream To wash it from your livers: strain ewes milk Into your Cider syllabub, and be drunk To him, whose Fleece hath brought the earliest Lamb This year; and wears the Baudrick at your board! Where you may all go whistle; and record he leaves them. This in your dance: and foot it lustily. How do you sweet Amy? yet? Hath any Vermin broke into your Fold? Or any rot seized on your flock? or cold? Or hath your fighting Ram, burst his hard horn? Or any Ewe her fleece? or bag hath torn, My gentle Amy? Am. Marian, none of these. have you been stung by Wasps, or angry Bees? Or razed with some rude bramble, or rough briar? Alas! I my Love! She sing him, runs to embrace him. He puts her back. Where should I be, but in my Robins arms? The Sphere which I delight in, so to move? What means this, Thrice worthy Clarion? or wise Alken? know ye? What riddle is this! unfold your self, deer Robin. I to Mother Maudlin? Will Scathlock say so? Good honest Shep'ards, Master's of your flocks, Simple, and virtuous men, no others hirelings; Be not you made to speak against your Conscience, That which may soil the truth. I send the Venison Away? by Scathlock? and to mother Maudlin? I came to show it here, to Mellifleur, I do confess; but Armies falling ill, Did put us of it: Scathlock, en ters. Since we employed our selves In comforting of her. OF, here he is! Did I, Sir, bid you bear away the Venison, To mother Maudlin? What have you done? Done my Commands, dull groom? Fetch it again Or kennel with the hounds. Are these the Arts Robin, you read your rude ones of the wood, To countenance your quarrels, and mistakings? Or are the sports to entertain your friends Those formed jealousies? Ask of Mellifleur, If I were ever from her, here, or Amy, Since I came in with them; or saw this Scathlock, Since I related to you his tale, of the Raven? What you have concluded on, Make good I pray you. My heart it is, is wounded pretty Amy; Report not you your griefs: I'll tell for all. Try if you can take rest. A little slumber Will much refresh you (Amy). She does not know: and therein she is happy. Thank you good Maudlin, And thank your Son. Go, bear them into Much the Acater, let him thank her. Surely, Mother You were mistaken, or my Woodmen more, Or most my self, to send you all our store Of Venison, hunted for our selves, this day! You will not take it, Mother, I dare say, If wee'lld entreat you; when you know our guests: Read Dear is head still of the forest feasts. I not gave it, Mother; You have done wrong. then; I know how to place My gifts, and where; and when to find my seasons To give, not throw away my Courtesies. What's ravished from me I count it worse; as stolen: I lose my thanks. But leave this quest: they fit not you, not me, Maudlin, Contentions of this quality. How now? There Scathlock, for thy plines, thou hast deserved it. Marian gives him Gold. No, Maudlin, you had imparted to your Neighbours; As much good doo't them: I have done no wrong. How is't Amy? And why? Alas, how innocent her Story is! Wee'll send for him sweet Amy, to come to you. Whither intend you? Amy is recovered, To them Maud and Douce, but Maud appea ring Like Ma rian. Feels no such grief as she complained of, lately: This Maiden hath been with her from her Mother Maudlin, the cunning Woman, who hath sent her Herbs for her head, and Simples of that nature, Have wrought upon her a miraculous Cure; Settled her brain, to all our wish, and wonder! I did so. But the skill of that wise woman And her great charity of doing good Hath by the ready hand of this deft lass Her daughter, wrought effects, beyond belief, And to astonishment; we can but thank And praise, and be amazed, while we tell it. They go out. Robin-hood? Is he here? Help, murder, help. You will not rob me Outlaw? Thief, restore My belt that ye have broken! Away then, when my Robin bids a Feast, 'Twere sin in Marian to defraud a Guest.