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ROBIN HOOD.

(Price One Shilling and Sixpence.)

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ROBIN HOOD; OR, SHERWOOD FOREST: A COMIC OPERA.

AS IT IS PERFORMED AT THE THEATRE-ROYAL, IN COVENT-GARDEN.

BY LEONARD MAC NALLY, ESQ.

LONDON: Printed by J. ALMON, at No. 183, Fleet-Street. M DCC LXXXIV.

To Mr. WM. SHIELD, Compoſer to the Theatre-Royal, Covent-Garden.

[]
SIR,

GIL BLAS adviſed a friend who had written for the ſtage with ſucceſs, to publiſh his works, obſerving that as he had impoſed upon the public by the repreſentation of bad pieces, he ought to open their eyes in gratitude for the reception they had met. This Opera, I fear, like the works of the Spaniſh dramatiſt, tho' applauded on the ſtage, may fall under cenſure in the cloſet, where it muſt appear diveſted of that aid it received from your excellent muſical compoſitions, and the incomparable acting with which the characters were ſupported. The three principal ideas which combine the ſubject are not original, but borrowed from the ballads of Robin Hood, the Nutbrown Maid, and the * Hermit of the Dale: I adopted them as being popular. It was my firſt intention to have taken all the ſongs from old ballads; thoſe I have ſelected are, I truſt, not ill choſen, or unapplicable to the piece. ROBIN HOOD and his merry Archers have often been upon the Stage. The Biographia Dramatica gives an account of ſix pieces in which this celebrated outlaw was the hero, excluſive of the Sad Shepherd by Ben Johnſon; but it does not appear that any of them met with ſucceſs. I addreſs theſe obſervations to you, as a tribute to your merit; happy in having an opportunity of publicly aſſuring you, that no man ſtands higher in my eſteem. Your friend,

LEONARD MAC NALLY.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

[]
MEN, Reſidents in the Foreſt.
  • ROBIN HOOD, Captain of the Outlaw Archers, Mr. DAVIES.
  • LITTLE JOHN, his Friend and Bow-bearer, Mr. QUICK.
  • SCARLET, a principal Outlaw, Mr. BRETT.
  • BOWMAN, another Outlaw, Mr. CUBITT.
  • OUTLAWS and Archers,
    • Mr. DARLEY,
    • Mr. DOYLE,
    • Mr. BAKER, &c.
  • ALLEN A DALE, the Shepherd of the Foreſt, Mrs. KENNEDY.
MEN, Viſitors to the Foreſt.
  • RUTTEKIN, an itinerant Tinker, Mr. EDWIN.
  • BARON FITZHERBERT, diſguiſed as Friar Tuck, Mr. WILSON.
  • EDWIN, the Hermit of the Dale, Mr. JOHNSTONE.
WOMEN, Reſidents in the Foreſt.
  • STELLA, a Shepherdeſs, Miſs WHEELER.
  • LASSES,
    • Mrs. DAVENETT.
    • Miſs BRANGIN.
WOMEN, not reſident in the Foreſt.
  • CLORINDA, Huntreſs of Titbury, Mrs. MARTYR
  • ANNETTE, the tiny Foot page, Mrs. WILSON.
  • ANGELINA, a Pilgrim, Mrs. BANNISTER.

The SCENE lies in Sherwood Foreſt.

ROBIN HOOD; OR, SHERWOOD FOREST.

[5]

ACT I.

Scene a deep wood terminating in a viſto.—Several cots ſhaded by trees: on one ſide of the ſtage, Achers making arrows; on the other ſide, Stella and other women With diſtaffs, ſitting at their ſeveral doors.

GLEE.

IN Sherwood's grove,
The ſweets of love,
We'll taſte and drink till we're mellow;
With dimpled ſmiles,
Sly winks and wiles,
Each laſs will pleaſe her fellow.
Ranting,
Flanting,
Gay gallanting,
Such ſport the like ne'er ſeen O!
Hey down derry, derry,
Merry maids and archers,
Tripping it on the green O.—
Bowman.
[6]

Here comes Little John.—

Enter JOHN, carrying a large bow.
John.

Well ſung and ſtrongly, my blithe lads and hearty laſſes—like true out-laws who lighten the heavy purſes of the rich with clear conſciences, ſhare your booty with the poor, and waſh down repentance with cups of nappy brown ale.

Stella.

Girls, let us retire.

The women retire into the cots.
Bowman.

Why are we called out-laws, John?

John.

I'll tell you. Laws were made to puniſh rogues; but we being honeſt fellows, are put out of the law.

Bowman.

Then honeſty and law are not found together.

John.

True; and therefore being honeſt we live againſt the law; and yet, with due deference to the learned profeſſion, we live honeſtly as thoſe who live by the law.

Bowman.

Right, John.

John.

Mark—We kill the King's deer, and are called thieves; but who are the greateſt thieves, we who feed on royal veniſon, or thoſe who prey upon his majeſty's liege ſubjects? Stand cloſe and attend to me lads—our captain, the brave Earl of Huntingdon, has a call upon our ſervice, therefore every man muſt look to his arms; let your quivers be well ſtocked with arrows, and ſee that your bow-ſtrings are all ſound. This night we ſally forth on an expedition.

Bowman.

What is the cauſe?

John.

Our captain you all know was betrothed to the fair Clorinda, niece to Baron Fitz Herbert. You alſo know, that on the very eve of marriage he was ordered from court.

Bowman.
[7]

True.

John.

Now this was all owing to the biſhop of Hereford, who maliciouſly poiſoned the royal ear, and the inſtant the noble Huntingdon became an object of the King's diſpleaſure, the whole court tribe, even the very caterpillars who fed upon his bounty avoided him as if he was contagious.

Bowman.

But we, John, ſtuck to him, and will while we have life.

John.

Give me your hand—a man never truly knows his friends till misfortune overtakes him. But mark—Our leader's heart is fixed upon the lady Clorinda, and ſhe loves him with equal ardour; but the proud Baron, her uncle, keeps her locked up, and prevents all intercourſe between them.

Bowman.

Why not attack the Baron's caſtle and carry her off by force—

John.

That is the buſineſs you are to be employed on—we will execute it this very night; but not a word to Robin, voluntary ſervice is moſt valuable, and to-morrow, I truſt, we ſhall be able to preſent his miſtreſs to him—

(A horn ſounds)

—Hark! Scarlet's horn.

Enter SCARLET, and Archers, with RUTTEKIN the Tinker, priſoner; an Archer carrying his budget.
John.

Brave Scarlet, welcome!—Who have we got here?

(Examining Ruttekin.)
Scarlet.

We diſcovered a company of men, within the purlieus of the Foreſt, on their way we ſuppoſe to the aſſizes at Nottingham.

John.

On their way to the aſſizes! O the unconſcionable dogs! with intent no doubt to ſue their honeſt debtors.

Scarlet.
[8]

They fled, and all eſcaped but this fellow.

John.

What are you, ſirrah?

Ruttekin.

A tinker and a fool, but no knave.

John.

Well diſtinguiſhed; for though all knaves are fools, all fools are not knaves. Where do you reſide, tinker?

Ruttekin.

Where I ſtand. I carry my ſhop on my back, as the ſnail carries his houſe; am always at home, yet am a traveller.

John.

A fool a traveller! but that is no new caſe, many of our travellers having proved themſelves fools. Let the tinker be free. But ſay, lads, what plunder have you brought in?

Scarlet.

Not much. We met a monk, who denied having caſh, but Robin forced him to pray to his titular ſaint for ſome, and after five minutes devotion, on ſearching his reverence, we found twenty broad pieces in his hood; but the money did not remain long with us: falling with one of the biſhop of Hereford's tenants, who was flying from his habitation, being unable to pay his rent, Robin, with his accuſtomed humanity, made him a preſent of the Friar's tribute.

John.

Perhaps this fellow is an impoſtor, ſo open his pack

(pointing to Ruttekin)

: A good heart may lie in a deformed body; a diamond may be concealed in a dunghill, and why not gold or ſilver in this budget.

They open the budget and throw out a fowl, a bottle, and loaf; Ruttekin leaps into it.
Ruttekin.

Spare my property! my budget contains my ways and means!

Scarlet.

Out of the budget, or I'll knock you down.

Ruttekin.
[9]

What, ſtrike a man in his own ſhop?

Horn ſounds.
John.

There goes Robin's blaſt and calls me— Away lads; reinſtate maſter Tinker in poſſeſſion of his ſhop and moveables, and give the poor devil ſome refreſhment.

Exit.
Ruttekin.

Lead away my merry folk, and I'll dance after you.

AIR.

I mend pottles and canns,
Hoop juggs, patch kettles and pans,
And over the country trudge it:
I ſing without meaſure,
Nor fear loſs of treaſure,
And carry my all in my budget.
Here under the green leav'd buſhes
Oh how we'll firk it,
Caper and jirk it,
Singing as blithe as thruſhes.
I'm not plagued with a wife,
Live free from conteſt and ſtrife,
Blow high, blow low—Ruttekin never minds it.
I eat when I'm hungry,
Drink when I'm dry,
Join pleaſure wherever I find it.
Here under the green leav'd buſhes,
Oh how we'll firk it,
Caper and jirk it,
Singing as blithe as thruſhes.
Exeunt.
[10] Enter FRIAR and JOHN, fighting with quarter-ſlaves, two ARCHERS following.
1ſt Archer.

Well done, John!

2d Archer.

Well laid on, Friar!

John.

Let no man ſtrike who loves me. Friar, you have beaten me ſoundly; I retain the muſic of your fiddle-ſtick in both my ears.—O heaven preſerve us from the heavy arm of Mother Church!

Friar.

Have I done you juſtice?

John.

Yes, juſtice with a vengeance!—To give the devil his due, this infernal divine fights with Chriſtian fortitude.—The laſt blow ſtaggered my conſcience.—But will you live among us, prieſt?

Friar.

With all my heart, upon this condition, that if you need a chaplain, I may ſerve you and your friends in that capacity.

John.

Will you be true?

Friar.

To the laſt moment I will be true to you—will attend to ſhrive Little John, even at the gallows.

John.

I thank your charity, reverend Sir; and, as one good turn deſerves another, be aſſured you ſhall not want a friend to ſhake hands with at the gibbet. Our chaplain you ſhall be; a confeſſor, my hearts, will make us new men every day, by abſolving us in the morning for our treſpaſſes over-night.—But we muſt not have too much devotion.

Friar.

Never fear—Though I wear the habit of the church, I am no devotee; I love my friends, pray for my enemies, and my principal ſtudy is the art of living well with all mankind.

John.

And women-kind, I preſume—

Friar.
[11]

Who ordained you a confeſſor?—But in truth, though I have taken the vow of celibacy, I reprobate a ſingle life among the laity, and think that were the ſuperfluous productions of nature to be pruned away, the buſineſs ſhould commence by lopping off old maids and fuſty batchelors.

John.

Right—they are a malignant generation, and, like the rattleſnake, increaſe in noiſe and venom with their years. To what monaſtery do you belong?

Friar.

To none; I am juſt returned from a cruſade.

John.

I thought ſo, for you laid on like a Turk.

Enter BOWMAN, with ſheathed ſword.
Bowman.

A ſtranger has ſurrendered to one of our out-poſts, and is coming this way. He demands an audience with Robin Hood immediately, and ſends his ſword.

Delivers the ſword to John.
John.

Conduct the ſtranger before us—and ſee, maſter Bowman, take care of this honeſt Friar; let him have liquor to moiſten the clay, for I ſee by his ruby noſe, he is a wet ſoul with a dry liver.

Friar.

Go on, my lad; and remember your orders—let me have liquor plenty to moiſten the clay.—

AIR.

I am juſt arriv'd from the Holy Land,
Over the buſh and under the briar;
And I drink till I neither can ſit, walk, nor ſtand,
For I am a jolly old Friar,
O I am a merry old Friar.
[12]
I've ſwallow'd hogſheads, butts, gallons, and quarts,
Over the buſh and under the briar;
So light my heart, miſchance it never thwarts,
For I am a jolly old Friar,
O I am a merry old Friar.
If on my way I meet a bonny laſs,
Over the buſh and under the briar;
Then I a bleſſing give—ſnug on the graſs—
For I am a jolly old Friar,
O I am a merry old Friar.
Exeunt Friar and Bowman.
John.

Well chaunted, and merrily; a goodly pſalm-ſinger: yet his notes would ſound better in a tavern than a cathedral.

Enter EDWIN, guarded.
Edwin.

I have told you my buſineſs is with Robin Hood only.

To the guard.
John.

That may be, but you cannot ſee the great Robin, till firſt examined by Little John. Who are you, Sir?

Edwin.

A gentleman, courteous Sir, who wiſhes to be conſidered your humble ſervant.

John.

Fairly ſpoken—An humble ſervant is good, becauſe it is a rarity, moſt ſervants. aſſuming more impudence than their maſters. Now Gentleman is bad; though it is a good title to travel with, or live by: for every fellow, who has neither property or profeſſion, and is too lazy to work, begs or plunders under the character of Gentleman.

Edwin.

I agree with you, Sir, and the country is overrun with ſuch vermin.

John.
[13]

Here comes our leader—

Enter ROBIN.

Noble Captain, this gentleman, who ſays he is my humble ſervant, deſires to ſpeak with you.

Robin.

I like his preſence.—You appear a ſoldier, Sir.—Return him his ſword.

(To John.)

It is my way to meet every man on equal terms; and if you come for a trial of ſkill, my bow-bearer will ſee fair play.

John.

Never doubt my honor; and if you beat Robin to-day, John will indulge you with a bout to-morrow.

Edwin.

I would ſpeak in private.

John.

Then I withdraw; and, in truth, I am not in good fighting order—Stella has run away with my heart; and this Friar has raiſed ſo many knobs upon my head, it feels like a bunch of grapes.

Exit.
Robin.

Now, Sir, what are your commands?

Edwin.

Courage and generoſity are congenial qualities: I am confident you poſſeſs the firſt, and doubt not but I ſhall experience the latter.

Robin.

You ſeem to ſpeak from a brave and candid ſoul. Whatever my men have taken ſhall be returned.

Edwin.

I only wiſh them to reſtore a hermit's garment. You ſee before you an unhappy man, ſcorned by the woman he loves, urged by deſpair, yet doating on the cauſe of his miſery. O heaven! is there no comfort for me?

[14]

AIR.

Ye pow'rs who make virtue your care,
O bend from your bowers above;
Say, why ſhould diſtreſs and deſpair
Be the conſtant attendants on love?
Should war with its wide-ſpreading force,
Of nations the ſcourge and the curſe,
To ten-fold its rage be encreas'd,
The torments of lovers are worſe.
Ye pow'rs who make virtue your care,
O bend from your bowers above;
Say, why ſhould diſtreſs and deſpair
Be the conſtant attendants on love?
Robin.

Your ſorrows, breathing the genuine feelings of an injured mind, engage my friendſhip. Is it your intention to join our party? You may command here every thing conducive to your eaſe.

Edwin.

You have my thanks; but I muſt refuſe your generous offer. My mind, long labouring with grief, has determined upon retirement: underſtanding there is a hermitage in the Foreſt, lately occupied by a holy man, now dead; there, loſt to the world, I wiſh to become his melancholy ſucceſſor, and pine out a life of wretchedneſs.

Robin.

May I enquire who you are?

Edwin.

My name is Edwin, ſon to Sir Launcelot Barnard; I am juſt returned from Paleſtine, where for three years ſerving under a borrowed name, I ſought for death in battle.

Robin.

Command my ſervices. I knew your father well, and often under him repelled my [15] country's foes. The ingratitude of thoſe I loved and ſerved has driven me into this Foreſt, an outlaw —but no more of that—though rough in manners, and poſſeſſing aſperity againſt the proud, the avaricious, and the luxuriant, you ſhall find me not ungenerous to the diſtreſſed.

Edwin.

'Tis to your generoſity I apply; the ſimplicity of your manners I admire, and deſpiſe the ſuperficial civilities of life: the mind of a ſoldier, like his ſword, is more valuable for its temper than its poliſh.

Robin.

Henceforward we are friends; but come, let us in and drink a pledge to future amity. Edwin your hand

(takes Edwin's hand)

I feel for you. Alas! I am myſelf a lover, and though beloved in return, ſuffer under all the excruciating pangs of abſence.

DUET.

The ſtag through the foreſt, when rous'd by the horn,
Sore frighted, high bounding, flies wretched, forlorn;
Quick panting, heart burſting, the hounds now in view,
Speed doubles, ſpeed doubles, they eager purſue.
But 'ſcaping the hunters, again through the groves,
Forgetting paſt evils, with freedom he roves.
Not ſo in his ſoul, who from tyrant Love flies,
The ſhaft ſtill remains, and deſpairing he dies.
Exeunt.
[16] Enter ALLEN and STELLA.
Allen.

I am certain ſomething diſtreſſes you; tell me, my dear ſiſter, what is it? I your brother and friend, have a right to queſtion you: believe me, Stella, few women would fall into error, if they made confidants of their male relations.

Stella.

I do believe you love me, brother; and I hope you have no reaſon to complain of my wanting affection. Let me aſk you a queſtion; what think you of Will Scarlet?

Allen.

That, in manners, he is a vain fop; and, in his heart, a cunning deceiver. Like an over-ripe pear, fair without, but bad within.

Stella.

You are right, brother, he is a fop; for when he brings home poſies from the meadows, he always culls the ſweeteſt and prettieſt to ornament himſelf; and he is a deceiver, as poor Martha knows to her coſt. Oh! poor Martha! ſhe was once the very life of the Foreſt.

AIR.

The laughing pow'rs
"That led the wanton hours,
"When May was in her prime,
"Open'd the cells of flow'rs
"To airy paramours,
"And bid the love-ſick poet ſigh in rhyme."
Oh! ſummer all too fair!
Oh! bliſſes all too high!
Oh! might ſhe not have known,
That ſweeteſt flow'r, the ſooneſt blown,
Is ſooneſt gone—
[17]That cleareſt ſtream beneath a ſummer ſky
May ſoon be dry!
She never ſaid,
Can my dear love fly,
Till he was fled!

But what think you of Little John?

Allen.

I think him a ruſſetan, a goodly apple, with a plain outſide, but ſound core.

Stella.

And I think ſo too; for he ſtrews thyme under my window, when he thinks I do not ſee him; and when he gathers wild ſtrawberries, or filberts, or finds honeycombs in the woods, he always preſents them to me untouched.

Allen.

There is as much difference between John and Scarlet, as between an honeſt man and a knave. I know they are both your admirers, but be cautious in beſtowing your affection; you are very young, Stella; and love, my girl, has its bitters as well as ſweets.

Stella.

I would tell you a ſecret—but you muſt hear me without cenſure; or if you reprove, remember, the leſſons of affection make the deepeſt impreſſions when breathed in gentleneſs.

Allen.

Speak with freedom. Something I fear has hurt you.

Stella.

Yes, I am hurt, yet I cannot tell where, I am pleaſed too, yet I cannot tell why. I ſigh when I wiſh to ſmile. Nay more, I am warm in the cool ſhade, and freeze even in the ſun. Heigh ho!

Allen.

And how long have you had this complaint?

Stella.

How long! It has been coming on me by degrees at leaſt theſe long, long two months. [18] Let me whiſper you a queſtion; nay, turn your head, I cannot ſpeak while you look in my face. You muſt know, Little John this day gave me ſome wild plumbs—La, I cannot ſay a word more!

Allen.

Then the complaint lies there.

Stella.

Where, brother, where—mercy, ſhew me! Sure I do not eat too many wild plumbs—where does the complaint lie? I feel the pain, but cannot diſcover the ſeat of it.

Allen.

Lay your hand upon your heart and pronounce the name of John.

Stella.

There—John, John, John—Bleſs me! how it beats—pit, pit, pit, pat—Heigh ho! my complaint I find is the heart-burn and palpitation.

Allen.

The truth is you love John.

Stella.

Love a man! O fie! Yet, certainly I have a great friendſhip for John. You know, brother, when I fell into the river, he plunged in and ſaved my life, while Scarlet run for aſſiſtance.

Allen.

I do not blame your gratitude; but be cautious, John's ſimplicity might prove as injurious as Scarlet's cunning.

Stella.

I'll follow your advice, for I have heard, young girls often meet ruin where they expect ſecurity—

Allen.

And ever after ſuffer under the pangs of ſhame, repentance, and bitter grief.

AIR.

Hard beats her heart, her eyes pour tears,
Corroding grief conſumes her years;
No more ſhe ſports with damſels gay,
But mourns in pennance night and day.
Love makes her happy for a while,
And then, like thee, ſhe'll chearful ſmile;
[19]But ſoon the willow binds her head—
She mourns a lover from her fled.
Exeunt.
Scene changes to another part of the Foreſt. Enter CLORINDA in the dreſs of a huntreſs, with bow and quiver; ANGELINA as a male pilgrim; ANNETTE as her page.
Clorinda.

Nay, let me perſuade you, my ſweet couſin, do not depart till you ſee the reſult of my adventure.

Angelina.

That is impoſſible, my vow prohibits me: I will not reſt till I have reached the coaſt, nor will I return till I meet tidings of my love.

Clorinda.

But we are now near the bower of my lover—O Cupid! thou tyrant of the paſſions, be merciful to thy poor petitioner!

Annette.

Well, this love has ſet you both mad; but your madneſs, Madam,

(to Clorinda)

I think the moſt deſirable. Heaven defend me from the afflictions of my lady, my lord I mean! Melancholy madneſs is horrible! But let who will ſigh, I will laugh through life while I breathe. La! I have had lovers of all profeſſions, and played them off with equal indifference.

AIR.

When the men a courting came,
Flatt'ring with their prittle prattle;
Of their fool'ries I made game,
Rally'd with my tittle tattle.
Cooing to me,
Wooing to me,
Teaſing of me,
Pleaſing of me,
[20]Off'ring pelf,
Each ſilly elf
Came wooing, cooing, bowing to me.
The learn'd ſerjeant of the law
Shew'd his parchments, briefs, and papers;
In his deeds I found a flaw,
So diſmiſs'd him in the vapours.
Cooing to me,
Wooing to me,
Teaſing of me,
Pleaſing of me,
Off'ring pelf,
Each ſilly elf
Came wooing, cooing, bowing to me.
Phyſic old diſplay'd his wealth,
With his noſtrums, but the fact is,
I ſwore loud I'd keep my health,
Nor die martyr to his practice.
Cooing to me,
Wooing to me,
Teaſing of me,
Pleaſing of me,
Off'ring pelf,
Each ſilly elf
Came wooing, cooing, bowing to me.
But at laſt a ſwain bow'd low,
Candid, handſome, tall, and clever,
Squeez'd my hand, I can't tell how,
But he won my heart for ever.
Cooing to me,
Wooing to me,
Preſſing of me,
Bleſſing of me,
[21]He's no pelf,
Yet for himſelf
I'll ſend all other lovers from me.
Angelina.

Some one comes this way.

Clorinda.

One of the merry archers—Hillo! hillo! tantivy!

John
(within)

Hillo! hillo! hilloa!

Enter JOHN.

By St. Dunſtan's ſhrine, a Diana! and with a voice ſhrill as the lark! Egad, fair nymph, you make the welkin ring with your ſhrill notes. But why ſalute me with a tantivy; I, being a batchelor, and that gratulation only due to married gentry, who come under the deſcription of bucks?

(to Clorinda.)

Save your reverence,

(bowing to Angelina)

I preſume you are a palmer, performing penance for the ſins of your forefathers, for thou art too young to have tranſgreſſed thyſelf. But may I enquire, are you returning from, or going on a pilgrimage?

Annette.

Why aſk? what is your reaſon? and what right has my maſter to anſwer you?

John.

Here is a chatterer! Pray, my little magpie, has your tongue been ſplit with a ſilver groat, that it wags ſo glibly?

Annette.

You muſt know, my good friend, I and my maſter have traverſed France, croſſed the Alps, viſited Jeruſalem, made an excurſion into Turkey, and—

John.

Enough, enough—Egad, my lad of wax, the hinges of your tongue want no oiling. But pray now, to what purpoſe did you go through all this fatigue?

Annette.
[22]

In truth, to little purpoſe: our objects were beauty and virtue, both of which we find flouriſh better at home than in any other ſoil. Pray, Sir, give this inquiſitive fellow an account of your travels.

Angelina.

I will indulge him with all my heart, and then, fair couſin, without further ceremony, or even a farewel, I ſhall depart

(to Clorinda.)

My page has told you beauty and virtue were the objects of my ſearch.

BALLAD.

I travers'd Judah's barren ſand,
At Beauty's altar to adore;
But there the Turk had ſpoil'd the land,
And Sion's daughters were no more.
In Greece the bold imperious mien,
The wanton look, the leering eye,
Bade Love's, devotion not be ſeen
Where conſtancy is never nigh.
From thence to Italy's fair ſhore
I urg'd my never-ceaſing way,
And to Loretta's temple bore
A mind devoted ſtill to pray.
But there too Superſtition's hand
Had fickli'd ev'ry feature o'er,
And made me ſoon regain the land,
Where beauty fills the weſtern ſhore;
Where Hymen with coeleſtial pow'r
Connubial tranſport doth adorn,
Where pureſt virtue ſports the hour
That uſhers in each happy morn.
[23]
Ye daughters of old Albion's iſle,
Wheree'er I go, wheree'er I ſtray,
O, Charity's ſweet children, ſmile,
To cheer a pilgrim on his way!
Clorinda.

May cheerfulneſs be thy guide, and ſafety thy attendant.

Exeunt Angelina and Annette.
John.

I ſay Amen, from the depth of my heart. And now, you more than mortal, what is your buſineſs in the Foreſt?

Clorinda.

I ſeek a known bold archer, who draws his bow with ſkill, and can pierce an apple, or ſplit a wand, at threeſcore yards diſtance.

John.

Then you have hit the mark; and tho' I ſay it, who ſhould not ſay it; there is not a tighter fellow, of his inches, in the Foreſt, than your humble ſervant Little John.

Clorinda.

Art thou Little John?

John.

The ſame, lady—But ſee, I have no apprehenſion from the quiver of your eyes; my affections are engaged, and my heart is proof againſt their arrows. But for your comfort, there are charitable men in the Foreſt, and you may ſecure half a dozen ſtrings to your bow.

Clorinda.

Half a dozen! Cry you mercy, Little John: I have heard of your proweſs it is true, but ſeek a man at leaſt a foot taller.

AIR.

The trump of fame your name has breath'd,
Its praiſe has ſounded far and near;
Stout Little John, with laurel wreath'd,
Hath reach'd each dame and damſel's ear.
[24]But 'tis not you; bold Robin Hood
I come to ſeek with bended bow,
That man of might
I fain would fight,
And conquer with my oh, ho, ho!
Through froſt and ſnow,
Though cold winds blow,
I never fail,
In rain or hail,
Though thunders roll
From pole to pole,
To conquer with my oh, ho, ho!
With bended bow,
The buck or doe,
I never fail,
Through rain or hail,
Though thunders roll
From pole to pole,
To conquer with my oh, ho, ho!
John.

'Fore George, damſel, you ſing a merry [...]ave; but Robin will never fight you, ſo there is comfort for you and your oh, ho, ho!—But here he comes, and with him a poor love-ſick devil, going to turn hermit—

Clorinda.

It is, indeed, my dear Robin!—

John.

Dear Robin! Who are you? Speak nymph, I begin to ſuſpect—

Clorinda.

Step aſide and I will tell you.

John.

Your lily hand

(takes her hand)

for egad, damſel, I like you and your oh, ho ho!

Exeunt.
Enter ROBIN and EDWIN.
Robin.

It grieves me I cannot perſuade you to remain with us, time and reflection, with cheerful [25] company and the ſports of the chace, would alleviate your pain.

Edwin.

No, no—I have tried every means in vain: three years abſence has not leſſened, but encreaſed my paſſion and my grief—even hope, that ſweetning balm which attends the martyred wretch ſtrained on the rack in his laſt pangs of torture, is denied to me.

Robin.

Pray hear me.

Edwin.

Do not urge me—my life I have devoted to heaven, and will perſevere—permit one of your archers to conduct me to the hermitage.

Robin.

You ſhall be obliged; and yet I hope for your aſſiſtance and advice in recovering my love, my dear Clorinda!

Edwin.

You ſhall have my prayers—ſucceſs attend your efforts. You venture for a woman who reciprocrates your paſſion, and will reward it; I ſuffer for an unfeeling maid, whoſe ſcorn was inſtant death, did nor her beauty ſalve the wound it gives.

AIR.

Her hair is like a golden clue,
Drawn from Minerva's loom;
Her lips carnations dropping dew,
Her breath is a perfume.
Her brow is like the mountain ſnow,
Gilt by the morning beam:
Her cheeks like living roſes blow,
Her eyes like azure ſtream.
Adieu my friend, be me forgot,
And from thy mind defac'd;
But may that happineſs be thine,
Which I can never taſte.
Exit.
[26] Enter John.
John.

Clear the clouds from your brow, and prepare for laughter; I have a merry tale to tickle your fancy with.

Robin.

Poſtpone your merriment, good John: I am in a melancholy mood, and would indulge it.

John.

I bring ſomething to rouze your ſpirits— A challenge, and there lies the gauntlet.

Throws down a woman's glove.
Robin.

A woman's glove.

Takes up the glove.
John.

I know not whether man or woman; but the challenger is here in the Foreſt, and ſwears to beat you with an Oh ho, ho!

Exit.
Robin.

Perhaps ſome lover of my Clorinda! here comes the ſtranger.

Enter JOHN leading CLORINDA, her head turned from ROBIN.
Robin.

A woman!

John.

I ſay a goddeſs—but turn your head this way, pleaſe your goddesſhip; for if you fight here it muſt be face to face.

Clorinda.
(Looking towards Robin.)

Not know me Robin!

Robin.

It is Clorinda, my life, my love!

Embrace.
John.

Egad that is a Corniſh hug!

Clorinda.

O Robin—I have ventured all for you! will you not think lightly of me? am I not leſſened in your eſteem, for thus boldly ſtepping beyond the bounds preſcribed my ſex?

Robin.

Say, how haſt thou eſcaped?—I had reſolved as ſoon as to-morrow's ſun ſet from the world, to force you from your tyrant.

John.
[27]

Then you had been diſappointed, for I had reſolved with the aſſiſtance of Allen a Dale, and our merry men, to have done the buſineſs this very night unknown to you. It is a great diſappointment to me, fair lady, to be deprived the pleaſure of knocking the old proud Baron, your uncle, on the head.

Clorinda.

My uncle went yeſterday to court, in conſequence of an order from the king; and it is rumoured the French have threatened an invaſion. I availed myſelf of his abſence, and fled to you, my love.

Robin.

To live in this dreary Foreſt; but it is not dreary—where you reſide the ſweeteſt violets blow—ſpring ſports around your walks; and when you ſmile, the coldeſt hearts rejoice with ſummer's warmth.

John.

See the merry archers returning from the chace.

Enter STELLA, SCARLET, ALLEN, &c.
Robin.

My friends congratulate me: I have recovered my Clorinda and we will have a jovial day. Love has found his way into the foreſt, and to refuſe him an hoſpitable reception, would be ungrateful.

John.

Stella, why ſilent? Lady, this is the tender dove of my affection, and you ſhall ſolicit for me:

(To Clorinda.)

But let's into the bower— Old Splice'em the friar, who arrived this morning, came in pudding-time, and if I can prevail on Stella, he ſhall ſhortly lug out his horn-book.

[28]

GLEE.

By dark grove, ſhade, or winding dell,
We merry maids and archers dwell;
In quiet here, from worldly ſtrife,
We paſs a cheerful rural life;
And by the Moon's pale quivering beams,
We friſk it near the chryſtal ſtreams.
Our ſtation's on the king's high-way,
We rob the rich the poor to pay:
The woe-worn wretch we ſtill protect,
The widow orphan ne'er neglect:
Fat churchmen proud we cauſe to ſtand,
And whiſtle for our ſteady band.
End of ACT the Firſt.

ACT II.

[29]
SCENE, the outſide of ALLEN's cot; a view of ſheep feeding at a diſtance; a bench at the door; ALLEN and STELLA diſcovered ſitting.
ALLEN.

I THANK you, my dear ſiſter, for your attention to my advice: but I muſt to my flocks; farewel, and ever remember this, my dear girl, that though female virtue is an ineſtimable diamond, it is delicacy which gives it poliſh and briliancy of the firſt water.

Stella.

I ſhall remember your inſtructions.

DUET.

ALLEN.
The vi'let nurs'd in woodland wild,
Young Zephyr's bride, Spring's firſt-born child,
Whoſe veſt in heaven's tint is dy'd;
How fade its beauties on the ſight,
No more its perfume yields delight,
When the rich roſe unfolds its pride!
STELLA.
The feather'd tribes, who in the groves
With ſhrills mellifluous woo their loves,
As Nature's ſelf inſpires the ſtrain;
Their melting muſic fails to pleaſe,
Harſh and untuneful are their lays,
When Philomel awakes the plain.
BOTH.
[30]
The maid endow'd with virtue's grace,
Appears with ſoul-ſubduing face,
And ſhines in beauty's ſphere ſupreme;
Each nymph that won the heart before,
By her eclips'd, can charm no more,
And all her ſov'reign pow'r proclaim!
Exit Allen.
Stella.

Here comes my butterfly lover: he ſquints his eye at me, though I am ſure he admires his own face more than mine, or he would not ſo often peep into the brook. He walks this way, ſo I will ſtop and play the rogue with him.—Bleſs me! where can it be?

(Searching her pockets)

It muſt have been ſomewhere hereabouts.

(Looks round)

I would not have loſt it for—

Enter SCARLET.
Scarlet.

What have you loſt, my pretty Stella?

Stella.

How could you frighten me by coming ſo ſuddenly? I have loſt—La! you cannot think what I have loſt.—

Scarlet.

And I have loſt—What do you think I have loſt?

Stella.

Not your ſenſes, I hope?

Scarlet.

Why, in truth, even them; a man who has loſt his heart, generally loſes his ſenſes.

Stella.

Loſt your heart! Why carry it ſo looſe in your, breaſt? But ſome ſilly girl will pick it up, and return it; ſo farewel, thou heartleſs man.

Going.
Scarlet.

Why fly me?

Stella.

Becauſe I fear you.

Scarlet.
[31]

And why fear me?

Stella.

Becauſe you are a man, and, by your own confeſſion, a heartleſs man; now, a man without a heart ſhould always be avoided by a woman.

Scarlet.

Stella, I love you.

Stella.

So do I, moſt ſincerely.

Scarlet.

What, my charmer?

Stella.

Love myſelf to be ſure.

Scarlet.

Be ſerious: few men in the Foreſt can boaſt better pretenſions to a maiden's regard than myſelf, and you may loſe me. Hear me, my ſweet girl.

AIR.

I love you by Heaven, what can I ſay more?
Then ſet not my paſſion a cooling;
If thou yield'ſt not at once, I muſt e'en give thee o'er,
For I'm but a novice at fooling.
What my love wants in words, it ſhall make up in deeds,
Then why ſhould we waſte time in ſtuff, child?
A performance, you know well, a promiſe exceeds,
And a word to the wiſe is enough, child.
Stella.

But I am ſuch a fool I ſhall not take your hints; ſo farewel.

Scarlet.

One word.—

Stella.

Yes.—

Running off, he ſtops her.
Scarlet.

Yes—that is one word indeed; but you muſt not go.

[32] Enter RUTTEKIN.
Ruttek.

No, you muſt not go.

Scarlet.

Devil take this fool.

Stella.

Why curſe the fool, without including the knave? He is the worſt character of the two.

Ruttek.

My budget and tools againſt your doublet, I know what you are about.

Scarlet.

Are you a gambler?

Ruttek.

You ſay I am a fool; and did you ever know a gambler who was not a fool, unleſs he was a rogue? They are all either pigeons or rooks.

Stella.

Well, I am gone.

Scarlet.

And I follow.

Stella.

By theſe hands you ſhall not.

Exit.
Scarlet.

By theſe legs I will,

Exit.
Ruttek.

Ha, ha, ha! Well run doe! well run buck!—But, ha! by the Maſs the buck has fallen into a toil.

Enter JOHN and SCARLET.
John.

I ſay, Scarlet, I am angry.

Scarlet.

Angry! No, no; you are jealous, John, jealous.

John.

Jealous! It is falſe. Except among ſuch jack-a-dandies as you, jealouſy is not of this country's growth; nor indeed of any country where the people can lay claim to manhood. I am angry.

Scarlet.

I was never better pleaſed in my life: the ſmiles of a fine girl have raiſed my ſpirits.

John.

But you muſt reſign all pretenſions to that fine girl, my frippery jay. She can have but one of us, and you are not the man.

Scarlet.
[33]

You muſt reſign all pretenſions to that fine girl, my ruſtic clown. She can have but one of us, and I am the man.

Ruttek.

Let me decide this diſpute. What are your pretenſions?

Scarlet.

I love her.

Ruttek.

You love her.—What do you ſay?

John.

I love her.

Ruttek.

You love her too.—So far your claims are equal. What would you do for her?

Scarlet.

Die for her.

John.

Then die and be —

(whiſtles).

I live for her, and her alone.

Ruttek.

You would die for her,

(to Scarlet).

You would live for her,

(to John).

John, you are the man; for any woman, be ſhe ever ſo young, or ever ſo fooliſh, would prefer one living lover to a whole church-yard full of dead ones.

John.

See, Scarlet, we are both fond of the girl: I would make her my wife, but your deſigns are knaviſh. Your falſe-heartedneſs to girls is notorious; it riſes with the morning lark, and preys nightly with the owl.

Scarlet.

And what then?

John.

Mark my words—if you dare attempt any villainy againſt the chaſtity of Stella, may I never draw an arrow to the head, if I don't ſplit you from the coxcomb to the waiſtband.

Scarlet.

Ha, ha, ha!

John.

Yes, and hang up your perfumed carcaſs on one of thoſe trees, to whiſtle and ſwing in the wind, like the ſign of the Spread Eagle.

Ruttek.

What! promote him to the office of ſcare-crow, to frighten rooks from the Foreſt?

Scarlet.

If you are for that work, let us determine the conteſt this inſtant.

Draws his ſword.
Ruttek.
[34]
(Holding John.)

Don't ſplit him while I am here!

John.

Let me at him, Tinker: Yet it kicks againſt the grain of my manhood to ſtain my ſword with ſplitting a ſpiced plover; a fellow who ſmells ſavory as a jack with a pudding in its belly; who plaiſters his face over-night with greaſe and flour, and looks in the morning, for all the world, like a pigeon in paſte.

Ruttek.

Take a fool's advice in this buſineſs; court the girl openly, and let him who wins her wear her.

Scarlet.

There is wiſdom in the fool's advice.

John.

And I agree to the fool's advice; he is a wiſe fool.

Ruttek.

Right, lads! Riſk your lives for a woman! Ha, ha, ha! What woman would do ſo for you, my dapper jack-aſſes, pigmies of fourteen to the dozen! It is more than I could expect, who am a man of ſize: but I never quarrel for my miſtreſſes, though always ſouſed over head and ears in the tender paſſion; enamoured with every landlady and tapſtreſs over the country, the Soldan of Perſia is not a greater Turk at the buſineſs.

AIR.

Margaritta firſt poſſeſt,
I remember well, my breaſt,
With her row de dow dow de dow dow derrow.
With my reſtleſs heart next play'd
Martha, buxom ſloe-ey'd maid,
With her tantarara row.
[35]
She to Katharine gave place;
Kate, to Betſy's am'rous face,
With, &c.
Mary then, and gentle Ann,
Both to reign at once began,
With their, &c.
Jenny next, a tyrant ſhe,
But Rebecca ſet me free,
With my, &c.
In a week from her I fled,
And took Judith in her ſtead,
With my, &c.
She poſſeſs'd a wondrous grace,
But ſhe wanted Suſan's face,
With my, &c.
Iſabella's rolling eye
Eclipſed Suſan's preſently,
With her, &c.
Brown-ſkinn'd Beſs I next obey'd,
Then lov'd Nanny, red-hair'd maid,
With my, &c.
None could bind me, I am free,
Yet love all the fair I ſee,
With my tantarara row.
With my row de dow dow de dow dow derrow.
Tantarara row.
Exeunt.
Enter FRIAR and CLORINDA.
Friar.

Well niece, I ſee you are ſurprized.

Clorinda.

Surprized! I am aſtoniſhed, frighted to death.

Friar.
[36]

Niece, niece, thou art the wildeſt doe in the foreſt; thou haſt over-leaped the pale of prudence and delicacy, and art a very outlaw— O, I bluſh at this tranſgreſſion of duty and modeſty!

Clorinda.

You mean my emancipation from tyranny. In truth, uncle, the very hour you ſet out for court, I eluded the eyes of the Argus placed over me, and fled to the foreſt. Is not Robin my betrothed lord? and as ſuch do I not owe him a duty that ſupercedes every other. But tell me, what is your buſineſs here, diſguiſed thus in perſon and manners?

Friar.

Firſt, anſwer—How is my daughter? Thank heaven! in the delicacy of her conduct, I may place confidence.

Clorinda.

When I parted from my couſin, ſhe was well, but as uſual rather melancholy. Now anſwer me: what is your buſineſs here?

Friar.

Swear you will not betray me.

Clorinda.

On my honour: I would periſh firſt.

Friar.

I come here by order of the king a ſpy upon your lover.

Clorinda.

A ſpy! Oh ſhame, ſhame! how could you degenerate into ſo mean an office?

Friar.

Remember your promiſe. His life is in my power: by to-morrow's dawn, the biſhop of Hereford with five hundred archers will attack the Foreſt.

Clorinda.

Five hundred archers! a noble force worthy my Robin's valour. Let them come on: with him I'll head his merry-men, cheer his courage, and oppoſe my boſom to the keeneſt darts of his enemy. Uncle be aſſured of this: the woman who would live ſolely for the man ſhe loves, poſſeſſes ſufficient courage to die for him.

Friar.
[37]

On your duty grant me one requeſt, and all ſhall be well. Put off your marriage till morning—call up every ſmile and blandiſhment of love and beauty to aid your eloquence—ſolicit, nay, you muſt perſuade your lover to come within his ſovereign's grace. The enemy prepares to invade the land, and his power is neceſſary to his country.

Clorinda.

The duty is pleaſing, and I will try my utmoſt.

Friar.

His life depends on the event. He comes: ſo remember niece, you muſt defer your nuptials, and you have pledged your honour not to give the moſt diſtant hint of who I am, or of my buſineſs here.

Enter ROBIN, JOHN, and RUTTEKIN.
Robin.

What, father ſhriving Clorinda; but ſhe has no ſins to anſwer for, except her love for me, and that ſhe has confeſſed in plenitude of goodneſs. Take care however, ſanctimonious Sir, I ſhall grow jealous if I catch you thus alone with my love.

Friar.

A fig for love; my jug is my love, my wife—My ale my joy, my comfort—A liberal miſtreſs, who while in my poſſeſſion ſhall never refuſe to ſhare her favours with my friends.

Robin.

Nay, father, you ſhould not conſider drink as a miſtreſs, but a cheerful companion to drive away melancholy—ſome ale.—

Friar.

Ale—ale—ale.—

[38]

AIR.

When the chill ſciroco blows,
And winter tells a heavy tale;
When pies, and daws, and rooks and crows,
Do ſit and curſe the froſt and ſnows;
Then give me ale,
Old brown ale,
Nut brown ale,
Stout brown ale,
O give me ſtout brown ale—
Ale that the plowman's heart up keeps,
And equals it to tyrant thrones;
That wipes the eye that ever weeps,
And lulls in ſweet and dainty ſleeps:
Th' o'er wearied bones—
Old brown ale, &c.
Ruttekin.

The Friar is really moſt porterly drunk.

John.

True, tinker, and being porterly drunk, he is able to carry his liquor.

Robin.

To you, John, I ſhall leave the direction of our nuptial ſports and paſtimes.

John.

And I ſhall take care to furniſh good amuſements. You may expect, lady, ſuch archery as Diana or Apollo could never equal. Then we ſhall have at leaſt half a dozen heads cracked at quarter-ſtaff and ſingle-ſtick; a few bones broken at foot-ball, and a back or neck fractured at wreſtling —Oh! we ſhall have rare fun!

Clorinda.

Not thoſe who have their bones broken, John.

John.
[39]

Then we ſhall have bull-baiting and morrice-dancing—O how I long to be capering!

Robin.

Dance till you fall, John, but no bull-baiting; man has no right to ſport with the feelings of thoſe creatures which heaven has beſtowed for our ſuſtenance. They die for our uſe, and it is baſe ingratitude to treat them with cruelty.

Clorinda.

Thank you for that humane ſentiment, my dear Robin.

Robin.

Do you go to the young hermit who left us this morning, tell him of my happineſs, and that I requeſt his preſence at our feſtival.

To Ruttekin.
John.

Can you find the way, Tinker?

Ruttekin.

I paſſed the hermitage coming here, and will go forward upon the beaten path: never fear a fool finding his way through the world: fools keep the high road, it is your wiſe men who go aſide and fall into the ditch.

John.

You may truſt him with the delivery of a meſſage; he will be true to your word, though a liar and a tinker.

Ruttekin.

No ſlur upon tinkers; they are found in every honourable profeſſion. Your politician's a tinker, in mending the ſtate kettle, when he patches up one hole he makes two; your poet's a tinker, he hammers out new works from other men's old wit; the lawyer's a tinker, he deals in braſs and opens more flaws than he ſtops; and what's your phyſician? why a tinker too, a brazier of old battered conſtitutions, and if he cures you of a gout, will take care to leave a rheumatiſm behind for a new job.

Exit.
John.

Well, I'll to my duty—men, women, and children are buſy in their ſeveral vocations. [40] The Pindar of Wakefield has brought in a brace of fat bucks, Arthur a Bland has caught a diſh of choice jacks, the maid Marian's preparing the paſtry, and tiny Midge the miller is bolting flour for bread—farewel—every one to their vocations; you to amorous dalliance, I to ſee pretty Stella twining flowers round the bridal garland.

Exit.
Clorinda.

Poor John's deeply ſmitten—Heigh ho!

(Sighs.)
Robin.

That was a ſigh of grief—Are you not well? Chearly, chearly. Come we will diſpute on love, my ſweetheart.

Clorinda.

On love we muſt ever agree: But I would conſult with you on your honour—remind you of your own value. Your king has been inſulted by an enemy; and will you, my ſweet Robin, boaſting the blood of Huntingdon and Warwick, endowed with thoſe noble qualities Courage and Generoſity, neglect the duty you owe your country, conſuming life and reputation within the ſequeſtered ſhades of a foreſt.

Robin.

You know the wrongs I have ſuffered— My ſervices overlooked; baniſhed on a falſe accuſation; ſtigmatized with the imputation of a rebellious ſpirit; and even you, my betrothed wife, forced from my arms.

Clorinda.

Conſider, Robin, when our country is in danger, all offences ſhould be abſolved; the remembrance of all injuries be forgotten; all parties ſhould unite; every heart pant, and every arm act, for her honor and defence. Robin, poſtpone our nuptials till reconciled to your ſovereign; I would marry the leader of an army—not the captain of an outlawed band.

Robin.
[41]

She ſhakes my ſoul—I will put her heart to the teſt

(aſide).

I am determined here to ſpend my days—here to live as I have done—this you fear—this has ſhaken your conſtancy.

Clorinda.

To doubt my truth is ungenerous. Your fate is mine. But hear me.

Robin.

Will you be ever ready, with bended bow, to watch an outlaw and defend his life? Can you ſupport the viciſſitudes of ſeaſons—endure the ſcorching heat and cramping cold? Lodge on the chill ground, and depend for food upon the caſualties of the chace?

Clorinda.

All this could I bear, and even more with thee! But hear me—

Robin.

Suppoſe my affection cooled to thee, and warmed by the beauty of another object—could you with calmneſs ſee her ſupply your place?

Clorinda.

O, Robin! the ſight would wound my heart, but not decreaſe my love!

Robin.

Dearer than life! what, ſuffer this for me? Command my pride, my affections—Oh! thou haſt ſoothed my reſentments—conquered them—hath rouſed my loyalty—thy patriot flame now blazes in my boſom. Yes, Clorinda, I will join my country's arms, and head my merry-men. But what has my country to fear? While Engliſh-women thus inſpire ſentiments of public virtue, loyalty, and honour, the number of our enemies will but increaſe our victories.

[42]

AIR.

As burns the charger when he hears
The trumpet's martial ſound;
Eager to ſcour the field he rears,
And ſpurns th' indented ground,
He ſnuffs the air, erects his flowing mane,
Scents the big war, and ſweeps along the plain.
Impatient thus my ardent ſoul
Bounds forth on wings of wind,
And ſpurns the moment's as they roll
With lagging pace behind.
Exit.
Clorinda.

Poor Robin! I touched him nearly— but he made my heart bleed in return.

Enter ALLEN and STELLA.

Stella, well met, I hear terrible complaints of you, child.

Stella.

Of me, lady—

Clorinda.

Yes, of you, lady. John ſays you are cruel, flinty-hearted, and ill-natured.

Allen.

And I know he loves her, though too modeſt to urge his ſuit.

Stella.

Loves me! Then indeed he never told me ſo; and I rather think he fears me. He approaches me with a cautious ſtep, then looks at me with a cunning eye—ſo—and when he gives me any thing, if his hand ſhould but touch mine, la, la, he trembles juſt as if I was a wild beaſt. But I will tell you a ſecret.

Clorinda.

A ſecret! O mercy, let us hear it.

Stella.
[43]

I fear I have done a wrong thing. Scarlet has been at our cottage, and he ſwore ſo much, I promiſed to meet him here.

Allen.

That was wrong indeed! Never forget, my dear ſiſter, that to preſerve character, we ſhould avoid even the appearance of imprudence; a wound on the character of a young female, like an inciſion on the bark of a tree, expands with maturity.

Clorinda.

And I have heard that this ſame Scarlet, with all his foppery, is an inſinuating, deſigning fellow; and that more than one unhappy maid mourns his treachery.

Allen.

It is true; Lady Martha, one of Stella's faireſt companions, is now a wanderer through the Foreſt, lamenting and upbraiding, in all the horror of melancholy madneſs, her own weakneſs and the wickedneſs of her ſeducer. Take example by her, dear Stella.

AIR.

Once ſhe was, though now ſhe's ſad,
As the ſpringing ſeaſon glad,
E'er beheld in its domain;
Or fair Summer in her train;
Or rich Autumn in his year:
Sing ſhe could as ſky-lark clear,
E'er, alas! with grief to tell,
Into ways of ſhame ſhe fell.
Now her burden's conſtantly,
"Pity me, maids, pity me;
"Pity me, a ruin'd maid,
"Pining in the cypreſs ſhade."
[44]Woods that wave o'er mountain tops,
O'er whoſe moſs the titmouſe hops,
Tell her tale to ruſtling gales;
Fountains weep it through the vales;
And, with her own ſorrow ſaint,
Sighing Echo joins the plaint.
Martha fair, for ever ſad,
Wanders melancholy mad,
And thus ſings the bitterly:
"Pity me, maids, pity me;
"Pity me, a ruin'd maid,
"Pining in the cypreſs ſhade."
Exit.
Enter JOHN.
John.

Robin—fair lady—bleſs me—

(Surprized at ſeeing Stella.)
Stella.

You ſee I told you truth—He is always frightened at me.

John.

I am not frightened—I do not know how it is, but—as I was going to tell you, one of our ſcouts brings word, that the Biſhop of Hereford has raiſed his men, and is now at Nottingham, with intention to attack the Foreſt in the morning.

Clorinda.

I'll to my Robin. John, I have been ſpeaking to Stella. She has no diſlike to you. What ſay you, Stella, inſtead of being my brideſmaid, will you be a bride yourſelf?

Stella.

Heigh ho! my poor heart!

John

Heigh ho! O my poor heart!

Clorinda.

Farewell, I leave you together; and, John, take care, make the beſt uſe of your time, you know you have a rival; and this ſame love is a fantaſtical paſſion, a riddle which the wiſeſt cannot reſolve.

[45]

AIR.

The flame of love aſſuages
When once it is reveal'd;
But fiercer ſtill it rages
The more it is concealed.
Conſenting makes it colder,
When met it will retreat;
Repulſes make it bolder,
And dangers makes it ſweet.
Exit.
John.

Hem.

Stella.

Heigh ho! Margery.

John.

I have ſhot the firſt arrow.

(Aſide.)
Stella.

Are you there, John?

John.

Yes, Stella:—Courage, John, courage.

(Aſide.)
Stella.

Do you ſpeak to me, John?

John.

There is nobody elſe here, Stella:— I, I, I would.—

Stella.

La! what would you do?

John.

I love you more than—

Stella.

More than what?

John.

More than the ewe loves her lamb, the doe her fawn, or the dove her mate; I love thee a thouſand times better than I love myſelf.

Stella.

And what then?

John.

Love me in return.

Stella.

And if I ſhould, what follows?

John.

We would do as our parents did before us—marry.

Stella.
[46]

La! that word marry is enough to frighten poor little Cupid out of the Foreſt: married folks ſeldom agree—there is George a Green abuſed his wife in the honey-moon, and ſtruck her before the end of the year; to be ſure ſhe has a tongue, and a way of flinging things at his head.—

John.

We ſhould have none of this work, Stella; though ſuch domeſtic breezes are as neceſſary in ſome families as thunder ſtorms in hot weather; the one clears the houſe of ſoul language, and the other frees the air of ſoul vapours.

Stella.

Then, John, my brother ſays I am too young; though I want only eleven months, one week and two days of eighteen. But how ſhould we maintain ourſelves?—

John.

Prudent ſoul; how ſhe looks forward to a young family!—I will maintain you by my wit, my girl; a means by which many great folks hold up their heads; beſides, I have goods and chattels, all the furniture you have ſeen in my cottage ſhall be yours, and egad, I will throw all you have not ſeen into the bargain.

Stella.

Thank you from my heart, John—and in return, all I poſſeſs is at your ſervice.

John.

Honeſtly ſpoken; ſo thus I ſeize upon the fruits of your father's induſtry, and your mother's labour.

(Kiſſes her.)
Friar.
(Within.)

This way—this way—

Stella.

Mercy! here are ſome men coming.

John.

Who in the name of Old Nick are they? let us ſtand aſide and ſee.

[47] Enter FRIAR, SCARLET, and two ARCHERS.
Friar.

See, gentlemen, the biſhop of Hereford will not come alone; the King's forces join him, and you can have no chance from oppoſition; ſo convey me to Nottingham, and I'll inſure pardon to every man who accompanies me.

Scarlet.

What ſay you, lads?

1ſt. Archer.

We will follow the fortunes of our Captain.

2d Archer.

But can we in conſcience deſert our Captain?

Friar.

No more about conſcience.—But come, I'll put it to the trial, and here is the ordeal,

(takes out a purſe);

here is the general abſolution that ſalves all conſciences.—This opens and ſhuts the mouths of the moſt vociferous orators, blinds the eyes of the church, deafens the ears of magiſtrates, obliterates the judgment of the law, arreſts the arm of juſtice, and dries up the fountains of mercy. How feels your conſcience now?

Archer.

It tells me I am in duty bound to obey my ſpiritual paſtor.

Friar.

Religiouſly ſpoken. Here, take the fuller's earth, that removes all ſtains.

Gives money.
Scarlet.

Friar, I want no money; my terms are theſe: This night I keep watch with my friends; now, when our company is aſleep, we will ſeize upon Stella, carry her off, and thus reward myſelf.

John.

I'll take care of that, you treacherous raſcal. Here's for you, ſanctified devil.

(Knocks down the Friar with his pole, then draws his ſword; Scarlet alſo draws: the Archers run off.)

And now for you, good maſter Scarlet, whom I ſhall in a few minutes caſe—cloſe as a hare—Yes, I'll ſkin and carbonade you, you dog.

Scarlet.
[48]

Come on.—

Stella.
(Runs between them.)

Help! Murder! Help!

Enter ALLEN and ARCHERS; they ſeize SCARLET and the FRIAR. STELLA runs to JOHN.
John.

Is this a return for the hoſpitable reception our Captain gave you?

To the Friar.
Friar.

Bring me before your Captain, that is all I deſire.

John.

As for you, raſcal, you ſhall die like a traitor.

To Scarlet.
Allen.

Say, what is the matter?

John.

This hypocritical Friar I have diſcovered in the very act of bribing our men to deſert with him to Nottingham, for the purpoſe of betraying us; and Scarlet here was to carry off your ſiſter Stella.

Allen.

We will not diſturb brave Robin with them now. Let them be confined cloſe priſoners till morning.

Friar.

I ſubmit, but do not uſe me ill; for remember, no man ever injured the church with impunity.

Ex. Friar and Scarlet guarded.
Allen.

It was lucky, John, that you were ſo near.

Stella.

It was indeed. He once ſaved my life, and now preſerved my honour.

Allen.

Which entitles him to your heart.

(Horns)

But hark! the merry archers are returning from the evening's chace.

[49] Enter ARCHERS deſcending from winding hills at the further part of the Stage.

GLEE.

Hark the leafy woods reſounding
Echo to the bugle-horn;
Swift the ſtag with vigour bounding,
Leaps the break, and clears the thorn.
Ev'ry art his cunning trying,
Shafts arreſt his eager flight;
High he leaps, the hounds full crying,
Now he's vaniſh'd from our ſight.
Twanging bows with death purſuing,
Now he rears and turns his head,
Bays the dogs; but nought from ruin,
Nought can ſave—he falls—he's dead!
Sound the horn, huzza in chorus,
We are free from care, my boys;
Rural pleaſures lie before us,
Health, and length, and ſtrength of joys.
End of ACT the Second.

ACT III.

[50]
SCENE, a deep view of the foreſt; dark; RUTTEKIN diſcovered ſitting croſs-legged.
RUTTEKIN.

SO, after all my boaſting, I have loſt my way; but that is common with men of genius, and women of genius too. There is your great orator; he often leaves the plain road of truth, to wander in the labyrinth of falſehood. Then your prude, perhaps, after walking years in the ſtreight paths of virtue, trips in her gait, and, ſtumbling, falls upon a bed of thorns. ‘Few people purſue the tract Nature deſigned them—therefore we find politicians without brains, magiſtrates without juſtice, noblemen without honour, traders without honeſty, philoſophers without morality, and churchmen without religion.’

Annette.
(Within.)

Hilloa! hilloa!

Ruttek.

Here comes ſome ſhepherd's boy, bleating like one of his lambs.

Enter ANNETTE.
Annette.

Mercy! how dark!

Ruttek.

Hilloa!—

Annette.

Heaven preſerve me!—Pity me, if you are a human creature.

Ruttek.

I am a human creature, but with an appetite keen as a wolf.

Annette.

Sure you are the tinker I met this morning!

Ruttek.
[51]

Right, my little popping-jay; but where is your companion?

Annette.

I have loſt him in the Foreſt; help me to ſeek him, and he ſhall reward you liberally.

Ruttek.

Reward me! Give me your hand—Reward me!—I have been out, I find, in my road, but not in my reckoning.

Exeunt.
Enter ANGELINA.

AIR.

Oh, Love! the parent of gay ſmiling hours!
All nature owns with joy thy genial reign;
Thou canſt relume the little lives of flow'rs,
And bring their aromatic ſouls again:
Why am I baniſh'd from thy ſportive plain?
Why am I only doom'd to ſuffer pain?
I little thought, when I was of thy train,
Where bonny belles ſport with their paramours,
How friendſhip ſmil'd too ſweetly to remain;
How on the brighteſt day ſad evening lours.
Why am I baniſh'd from thy ſportive plain?
Why am I only doom'd to ſuffer pain?
Enter RUTTEKIN and ANNETTE at a diſtance.
Annette.

It is my maſter's voice.—Speak, Sir, I am here.

Ruttek.

Yes, your man is here, pleaſe your honour, and with him a tinker, who brought him to you—but not for the ſake of the reward he promiſed.

Angelina.
[52]

I am fatigued with wandering through this Foreſt, ſo dark and dreary.

Ruttek.

It is a faſhionable ſituation, your honour; moſt of our great folks are bewildered, or in the dark.

Angelina.

Do you live in the Foreſt, Sir?

Ruttek

No, I ſtarve in the Foreſt, Sir.

Annette.

Are there any inhabitants to be found here, maſter Tinker?

Ruttek.

Yes, bucks and does in plenty; as many horned cattle as any city can boaſt. I am now in ſearch of a hermit, with an invitation to Robin Hood's wedding, which is to be celebrated in the morning.

Annette.

Your couſin Clorinda, you hear, has not ſtood upon punctilio.

Angelina.

Well, Sir, permit us to accompany you in ſearch of this ſame hermit.—I am very weak,

(leans on Annette)

but feel moſt for you, my faithful companion; for myſelf no miſery is too great.

(Nightingale ſings.)
Annette.

Hark! I hear the harbinger of love! A happy omen!

Angelina.

It is indeed the nightingale!

Ruttek.

Yes, and preſently you will hear the ſcreech-owl.

(Bell tolls.)
Annette.

There goes the curfew of ſome neighbouring town; the ſound comes from the left.— Tinker, lead on.

Angelina.

O my ruined love!

Annette.

You did not ruin him, he was very poor!

Angelina.

Peace! He was rich in virtues; wealth nor power were not his, it is true; but he had wiſdom, truth, and generoſity—thoſe ſhould have been all to me.

Ruttek.
[53]

Come, gentle folks, I wait.

Annette.

We come, tinker.—Pray do not weep.

To Angelina.
Angelina.

Yes, weep for ever, though in vain. Not all the dew of heaven can revive the cropped violet.

Ruttek.

Pr'ythee, mend your pace; this wood is haunted by the ghoſts of, gibbeted thieves, and murdered travellers.—Bleſs me! I heard a noiſe—no; it was the wind. Robin Goodfellow and his brother fairies have been often ſeen here!—Liſt! I hear a ruſtling in the buſhes—ſome cut-throat, no doubt.

Annette.

Why tremble ſo?

Holding him.
Ruttek.

I tremble, thou aguiſh aſpin!

(Shaking.)

—Sir, do you not hear the devil, or ſome evil ſpirit?

To Angelina.
Annette.

Some one approaches—and ſee yonder a glimmering light ſparkles in the dark, perhaps in ſome cottage window.

Ruttek.

Yes, and it moves this way, houſe and all.

EDWIN appears at the upper end of the Stage with a lantern.
Angelina.

Heaven preſerve us!

Ruttek.

And forgive us our ſins.—O my poor conſcience! The poultry I have, ſtolen are pecking at it, and the lambs baaing in my ears.—

Annette.

Silence, coward!

Ruttek.

I am dumb.—But who ever looked on the devil without quaking?—No, it is not the devil, but a ghoſt or hobgoblin.—Nay, it is the devil too, for I ſee his great ſaucer eyes blazing with blue fire!

Angelina.
[54]

Peace, coward! perhaps ſome benighted traveller like ourſelves.

Ruttek.

It is the devil, I ſay; look at his cloven feet, great horns, and monſtrous noſtrils!—I'll to prayers.—

Kneels.
Edwin.

O my heart!—

Ruttek.

It is a broken-hearted poor devil too.

Annette.

Indeed that was a bitter ſigh.

Angelina.

I felt it in my boſom.

Edwin.

How dark and ſtill the night!—How ſuited to the ſituation of my ſoul! Oh Love, Love! why preſent her image to my mind, whoſe chilling breath froze my fond youthful hopes, and ſunk me to deſpair?

BALLAD.

Since all my hopes, dear maid,
Are blown to air,
And my fond heart's betray'd
To ſad deſpair;
Here in this wilderneſs
My ſorrows I'll rehearſe,
And thy hard-heartedneſs,
Thou cruel fair.
"Wild fruits ſhall be my meat,
"I'll drink the ſpring;
"Cold earth ſhall be my ſeat;
"For covering
"I'll have the ſtarry ſky
"My head to canopy,
"Until my ſoul on high
"Doth take her wing."
[55]
No bell, no fun'ral fire,
No tears for me;
No grave do I deſire,
Nor obſequy.
The gentle red-breaſt, he
With leaves will cover me,
And ſing my elegy
Moſt dolefully.
Ruttek.

You may ſing, Oh be joyful! this certainly is the hermit.

Goes toward Edwin.
Edwin.

Stand off.—Who are you?

Ruttek.

Zounds! it is not the hermit!

Edwin.

Speak, I ſay; you have no injury to fear from me.

Annette.

We are two young pilgrims who have loſt our way, and wander in the horrors of the Foreſt.

Ruttekin.

And a poor Tinker, almoſt famiſhed to death.

Angelina.

Who calls upon your compaſſion to guide their wearied ſteps to ſome hoſpitable cottage!

Edwin.

Your voice breathes gentleneſs—your hand, young man.—The day already breaks— my cell is near, where you may reſt in ſafety: ſimple fare, and a couch of ruſhes, are at your ſervice.

Ruttekin.

Poor ſouls! the lantern you carry in your poop frighted them out of their wits; they took you one time for a ghoſt; then for a hobgoblin; then for a Will o'th'wiſp; and at laſt for the devil himſelf! heaven bleſs us. Though I did all I could to encourage them, I ſhall never forget how they ſhook.

Annette.
[56]

Nor I how you confeſſed ſtealing the poultry and lambs.

Edwin.

Come on, I'll lead the way, and if free from that tyrant-paſſion, Love, my habitation may enſure you a comfortable repoſe.

Angelina.

Oh, my heart!

Edwin.

Grief I perceive ſits heavy on your mind, and weighs your ſpirits down; you mourn a broken fortune, a falſe friendſhip, or a deſerted love.

Angeli.

Gentle hermit, broken fortune, nor falſe friendſhip are not the cauſes of my melancholy.

Exeunt Edwin and Angelina.
Ruttekin.

No, we mourn empty bellies; my ribs ſtick as cloſe together as the two ſhells of an oyſter. Come, out with your purſe, youngſter: the reward, the reward.

Annette.

Reward! a ſound beating is the proper reward for a coward; beſides thou art a liar for denying thy cowardice, and a rogue for demanding what you have no right to.

Ruttekin.

The very reaſons why I ſhould have my reward; you ſee my garments are as ſeedy as a gingerbread cake; out at the elbows like a poet; ſo ſince I am a rogue and a liar, and ragged withall, give me the money lad, that I may get out of my bad habits.

Annette.

Here, firrah;

(gives money.)

This can procure you every thing but that you want moſt, honeſty.

Rutteken.

Never mind that: heaven bleſs him who makes me a rich rogue. O that I was now in Robin Hood's bower, it is there where plenty reigns, and good cheer keeps revel, and by this time the bridal breakfaſt is preparing.

[57]

AIR.

Gently burns the greenwood fire,
Lay the veniſon down to roaſt,
Dreſs it quickly I deſire,
In the dripping put a toaſt:
Hark! I hear the jack go round;
O the veniſon's nicely brown'd!
Green-geeſe, ducklings, juicy meat;
Capon, widgeon, partridge, quail,
Pies, tarts, dumplings, puddings ſweet,
Peas and beans, and butter'd kale;
Spices hunger to create,
O ye Gods! how I ſhould eat!
On the table dinner lies,
See the charming white and red;
Cut it up, the gravy flies,
On the ſweeteſt graſs it fed.
Hark! I hear the jack go round,
Oh the veniſon's nicely brown'd!
See they ſpread the lilly cloth,
Knives are ſharp and forks are clean;
Pickles criſp, and ſallads both
Now appear ſo freſh and green.
With ſtrong beer, old ale and wine,
O ye gods how I ſhould dine!
Exit.
SCENE, outſide of the huts. Enter JOHN, Bowman, and Archers.
Bowman.

Well John, his reverence the Biſhop of Hereford has not ventured to attack us.

John.
[58]

No: he waits the return of our priſoner, the Curtle Friar, who I am convinced is his ſpy; but Robin will truſs him up, "and he is right, I have no notion of ſpiritual paſtors laying aſide the keys of Saint Peter, to take up the ſword of Saint Paul."

Bowman.

Right, John.—

John.

But let me tell you, all our cares are at an end: Clorinda has perſuaded Robin to make proper conceſſions to the king, and join him in drubbing the enemy. He will be Earl of Huntingdon again; I'll be a Knight, Stella a Lady, and you a 'Squire: but this is loſing time. Let the priſoners be brought forward,

(Exit an Archer)

we will firſt diſpatch them, and then all get mad as ſo many March hares.

AIR.

The laſſes are mad, the Archers are mad,
"For nimbly footing the ground, Sir;"
In merry Sherwood no ſoul ſhall be ſad,
"While harps with melody ſound, Sir."
"We'll tipple like mad, then madly ſing,
"Madrigalls, catches and glees, Sir;
"Chaunt out like mad, till the welkin ring,
"Under the miſletoe trees, Sir.
"We fight like mad, when we fall on our foes,
"Shoot arrows wing'd like the wind, Sir;
"The fat fallow deer can't eſcape our bows,
"Nor in ſwiftneſs ſafety find, Sir.
"Then madly we'll ſing, and madly we'll dance,
"And madly all roar out, Sir;
"And madly make our enemies prance,
"If mad to try a bout, Sir."
[59]
Bold Bowman is mad, ſtout Allen is mad,
And John's as mad as the reſt, Sir;
Maidens run mad, our hearts are glad,
Stark mad ſhall be every gueſt, Sir.
Enter ARCHER, carrying a large Gothic chair: Archers.
John.

Fix the bench of juſtice here, which is is made of yew, ſignifying the bitterneſs of judgment. We ſhould have tried this wicked prieſt and our treacherous companion before day, but judicial proceedings ought never be carried on in the dark.

Bowman.

Nor in twilight, John; therefore we Engliſh hate Star-chamber buſineſs. But it is now broad light, ſhall we proceed?

John.

Yes, but firſt bring me in the robes and coif, we ſtripped from the learned Serjeant of the law, on his way to the parviſe.

(Exit Archer.)

A judge might as well appear without his head as without his robe; for profeſſional wiſdom conſiſts much in looking grave.

Enter ARCHER, with robs and coif.
John.
(Puts on the robes.)

Great knowledge and hocus pocus lie depoſited under this coif. Now I am equipt in the uniform of the courts, and qualified to hear and determine cauſes.

(Sits.)

Do I look wiſe?—

Bowman.

Aye, as wiſe as an owl at midnight— So wiſe, were you to appear in Weſtminſter-hall, on a call of Serjeants, the judges might cry out, "I ſpy a brother!"

John.
[60]

Order in the priſoners and witneſſes.— Though to be ſure I am acquainted with the whole caſe myſelf; but then being a judge, I muſt know nothing but what comes out in evidence.

Bowman.

Shall we impannel a jury?

John.

A jury! Piſh, no: where is the neceſſity? Juries follow the direction of the court: yet we may as well have one for form's ſake. Range yourſelves Archers for the jury.

(The Archers range themſelves in a row.)

Now bring in the proſecutors and the proſecutees.

Enter FRIAR and SCARLET, bound.
John.

Why are the priſoners bound? For ſhame Bowman! A man upon his trial ſhould be perfectly at eaſe in his body, that he may have the free uſe of his mind.

(The priſoners are unbound.)

Now carry away the ropes: the ſight of halters may be offenſive, or raiſe a fellow feeling, and diſturb ſome of the jury. Command ſilence.

Bowman.

Silence!

John.

You father Tuck, and you William Scarlet, ſtand charged with carrying on a correſpondence with the biſhop of Hereford, and an intention to betray us, lords and yeomen of the Foreſt, into his hands.

Bowman.

How ſay you, William Scarlet; guilty or not guilty.

Scarlet.

Not guilty.

John.

Not guilty! Say ſo again, you damned dog, and you ſhall be hanged without further trial, as a notorious liar. Will you challenge any of the Jury?

Scarlet.

You know, John, I'd fight the beſt of them.

John.
[61]

Fight the beſt of you: he don't underſtand the term; but, gentlemen, it is legal practice that the priſoner ſhould be ignorant of the proceedings carried on againſt him.

(To the Archers.)
Scarlet.

Will you liſten to reaſon?

John.

Liſten to reaſon! No, ſirrah, not on the part of the priſoner: I ſit here as a judge of law, not of reaſon; beſides, I have four reaſons for hanging you. Firſt, you muſt be hanged, becauſe I am not to ſit here for nothing: ſecondly, you muſt be hanged, becauſe you have nobody to ſtand up for you: thirdly, you muſt be hanged, becauſe you appear in forma pauperis without money; and, fourthly, you muſt be hanged, becauſe you have a damned hanging look. Gentlemen, I have finiſhed my charge.

Bowman.

Gentlemen of the Jury, are you agreed? Is the priſoner guilty, or not guilty?

Archer.

Guilty.

Bowman.

Put him bye. Stand forward, Friar. Friar Tuck, are you guilty or not guilty?

Friar.

Guilty.

John.

The firſt truth I believe you ever told.

Friar.

May I ſpeak.

John.

Not after conviction—Take him away.

The Archers ſeize him.
Friar.

One word—

John.

Stop his mouth.—

Friar.

I plead my clergy.

John.

Plead your clergy!—The devil you do? —Oh, ho!—Gentlemen of the Jury, this is a point of law, and muſt be left to Robin Hood. I ſhall only obſerve, that it is really a ſtrange doctrine, that men of the church and men of letters, [62] ſhould commit with impunity crimes for which other men ſuffer without mercy.

Enter ROBIN, CLORINDA, and STELLA.
Robin.

John you are early at duty.

John.

Yes, Juſtice ſhould never ſleep.

Robin.

True, John, nor ſhould Mercy ever cloſe her eyes.

Clorinda.

That ſentiment breathes philanthropy. How comes this, uncle? I have perſuaded my Robin to ſue his Sovereign for grace.

(Aſide.)
Friar.

Then procure my diſmiſſion, and all is well.

(Aſide.)
Clorinda.

May I interfere?—

John.

The buſineſs is over, madam, we have fully convicted the priſoners: will you pronounce judgment on the Friar?

(To Robin.)

Shall we hang him up, or cut him down?

Robin.

We will leave him, John, to the accuſations of his own conſcience; a ſeverer puniſhment than any we can inflict. Your profeſſion, Sir, ſhould have taught you principles of honour.

John.

Principles of honour!—You miſtake your man: this fellow is one of thoſe itinerant mendicants who travel the country, and ripen in the ſunſhine of public charity, producing very little devotion, with a plentiful crop of ſenſuality.

Friar.

Will you diſmiſs me?

John.

Yes, to the other world.

Robin.

Prudence would juſtify my inflicting on you the ſevereſt puniſhment; but humanity forbids it. Go to the proud biſhop of Hereford, and tell him, an outlaw inſtructed a church-man, by example, that charity which he ſhould practiſe as well as teach.

Friar.
[63]

I obey; and your meſſage ſhall be delivered literally. But be aſſured, when next we meet, you ſhall not have all the advantage; I will have ample ſatisfaction for this generoſity.

Robin.

Bowman, order him ſafe conduct through the Foreſt.—

(Exeunt Friar and Bowman.)

— And now for you, Sir,

(To Scarlet)

your ingratitude hurts me, and your baſe intent upon this innocent girl I cannot forgive; ‘for, let me tell you, Sir, there does not exiſt a greater wretch than he who, by perſuaſion and perjury, ſeduces to ſhame the object of his paſſion.’

John.

‘I know of none greater, except the villain who, having ruined, abandons.’

Stella.

Might I implore his pardon, on condition—

Robin.

What is the condition, Stella?

Stella.

That he marries poor Martha. She is juſt now returned to her mother's cottage, overwhelmed with grief.

Robin.

This, if he performs, ſhall again reſtore him to the Foreſt—

(Exit Scarlet.)

—Come, girls, the morning is fine, and we ſhall rouſe a ſtag before breakfaſt.

Stella.

‘You'll excuſe me; I never found pleaſure in worrying animals innocent as they are beautiful; and who have neither cunning to avoid nor courage to face their purſuers,’

Exit.
Clorinda.

Robin, lead on; I'll accompany you and your merry archers to the chace.

[64]

AIR.

When ruddy Aurora awakens the day,
And bright dew-drops impearl the flow'rs ſo gay,
Sound, ſound, my ſtout archers! ſound horns and away,
With arrows ſharp pointed we go.
See Sol now appearing in ſplendor ſo bright,
IO PAEAN! for Phoebus, who leads to delight,
All glorious in beauty he riſes to ſight;
'Tis he, boys, is God of the bow.
Sweet roſes we'll offer at Venus's ſhrine,
Libations we'll pour to Bacchus's divine,
While mirth, love, and pleaſure, in junction combine,
For archers, true ſons of the game!
Bid ſorrow, adieu! in ſoft numbers we'll ſing
Love, friendſhip, and beauty, ſhall make the air ring,
Wiſhing health and ſucceſs to our Country and King,
Encreaſe to their honour and fame.
Exeunt.
SCENE, the inſide of EDWIN's cave; a ruſtic altar with a wooden croſs, and a death's-head. RUTTEKIN ſleeping on a truſs of ruſhes; ANGELINA and ANNETTE ſitting at a table.
Angelina.

Here ſhould I wiſh to take up my abode, and, like the benevolent hermit of this cell, exhauſt my days in prayers and repentance.

Riſes.
Annette.

He ſometimes ſighs as bitterly as yourſelf.

Angelina.

Oh, there is no grief like mine! Reflect on the man I loved!—Not the ſweets of the [65] opening bloſſom, refined by the dew of heaven, could emulate the purity of his mind.—The dew, the bloſſom, the ſweets were his; but, woe to me! the inconſtancy of their charms was mine.

Enter EDWIN.
Edwin.

Hail, my youthful gueſts! I hope this humble cell has afforded you comfort?

Angelina.

We owe you grateful thanks.

Edwin.

The morning ſun has pierced the Foreſt's gloom, and glitters on the dew; the feathered choriſters chaunt their mattins to that bounteous Power which gave them being; and nature ſeems alive to love and cheerfulneſs: while man, ungrateful man alone! overlooks thoſe bleſſings which the all-wiſe, the all-benignant hand of Heaven daily pours on him.

Walks to Ruttekin.
Angelina.

What perſuaſive melody breathes in his voice!

Annette.

I could hear him preach for an hour. Pity ſo ſenſible, ſo young and clever a man, ſhould turn hermit.

Edwin.

See where this fool, improvident of time, ſhrouded in temporary death, dozes through life, and indolently loſes Heaven's moſt precious gifts, the exerciſe of thought and reaſon. Awake! awake, ſluggard! the morning wears apace.

Ruttek.

Why diſturb me?—Yet, by my appetite, it is time to riſe.

Edwin.

Young pilgrim, my heart participates the grief that evidently afflicts you, and my ſoul vibrates with thoſe involuntary ſighs you in vain attempt to ſuppreſs Tell me whence flow your ſorrows.

(Takes Angelina by the hand.)

This ſoft hand has not long graſped a pilgrim's ſtaff.

Angelina.
[66]

Oh, my love-worn heart!

Edwin.

Is love the bane that cankers thy young breaſt? Hapleſs youth! Some proud, ſome faithleſs woman has deſtroyed your peace.

Angelina.

Forgive the rudeneſs of a ſtranger, whoſe unhallowed feet intrudes where Heaven and you reſide.

Edwin.

Let me know your ſtory.—Beſhrew his heart who injured you! By Heaven I pity and would redreſs your wrongs.

Angelina.

You feel too much for me. I have been cruel, ungrateful.—Methinks I could conſide in you.—Let us retire, and, as you wiſh to know my ſtory, I will unboſom my heart to you in full confeſſion, and follow your advice

Exeunt Angelina and Edwin.
Ruttek.

Tell me, youngſter, what crime has this maſter of yours committed? Something terrible, for his conſcience is moſt horribly haunted.

Annette.

But not with the ghoſts of poultry or young lambs, maſter Tinker.

Ruttek.

No more of that, if you love me.— But ſay, where are you come from?

Annette.

We, as you may perceive by this badge, fought in the holy wars.

Ruttek.

That was pious; you cut the throats of the Pagans for the honour of Heaven, and the good of your own ſouls.

Annette.

In one engagement my maſter ſplit a Vizier to the chine, and I cut down a Baſhaw of three tails.

Ruttek.

Ha! ha! He was a devil of a Baſhaw! —And you cut off his tails!

Annette.

True; but it being our misfortune to be taken priſoner, we were carried to the houſe of a Muſti, where my maſter falling in love with the [67] Muſti's wife, and being diſcovered by him in the lady's apartment, to ſave himſelf, he ſtabbed the old fellow to the heart.

Ruttek.

That was right; it was ſerving Heaven to kill a Turk.

Annette.

We fled of courſe; and, after long wandering, came to a ſea-port, where we took ſhipping, and at laſt arrived in Old England.

Ruttek.

And pray now, had you any love-affair upon your hands?

Annette.

Certainly—I intrigued in the ſeraglio of a Janiſſary, who had a wife for every week, and a concubine for every day in the year.

Ruttek.

O, poor fellow! he had an almanack full of them. But I cannot help laughing at a fellow with ſuch a pigmy perſon and ſqueak-pipe voice getting among ſo many women.

Annette.

Why, ſirrah, wherever I travel, hundreds ſolicit my favours; but I am cruel, except to one maid only.

AIR.

My name is little Harry-O,
Mary I will marry-O
In ſpite of Nell, or Iſabel,
I'll follow my own vagary-O.
With my rigdum jigdum airy-O,
I love little Mary-O,
In ſpite of Nell,
Or Iſabel,
I'll follow my own vagary-O.
Smart ſhe is and bonny-O,
Sweet as ſugar candy-O;
Freſh and gay,
As flow'rs in May,
And I'm her Jack-a-dandy-O.
With my, &c.
[68]Soon to church I'll have her-O,
Where we'll wed together-O;
And that, that done,
Then we'll have fun,
In ſpite of wind and weather O.
With my rigdum jigdum airy-O,
I love little Mary-O;
In ſpite of Nell,
Or Iſabel,
I'll follow my own vagary-O.
Enter EDWIN and ANGELINA from the cave.
Edwin.

And is it—O Heaven!—Is it my love, my Angelina!—

Angelina.

I am your love indeed.

They embrace.
Ruttek.

That is natural; after high words, they fall to wreſtling.

Annette.

Yes, and the hermit will probably get the better of the pilgrim.

Angelina.

Annette, Annette, I have found my love, my Edwin!—Oh, that I ſhould not know thee!—But three years abſence, grief, and the hermit's habit, have cauſed the change. I have felt, for three long years, my ſpirit pine through weeping hours; but now thy ſmile lights up my mind, and all my ſorrows vaniſh like a fleeting dream.

Edwin.

Thou art altered too; the roſe of beauty is opened into bloom.—Here I could gaze, and feaſt my eyes for ever!—

Ruttek.

But, Sir, we cannot all partake of that breakfaſt; ſo let us have ſomething more ſolid.

Annette.

Peace, idiot!—Sir, I wiſh you happineſs: this meeting has ſaved us a long journey; we were on our way to the Holy Land.

Angelina.

We were indeed! I had reſolved to find thee, Edwin, or periſh in the attempt.

Edwin.
[69]

Let us to the merry archers.—The brave Earl of Huntingdon is my friend, and will ſhare my felicity.

DUET.

EDWIN.
Thus let me hold thee to my heart,
And ev'ry care reſign.
ANGELINA.
And ſhall we never, never part,
My life, my all that's mine!
BOTH.
No; never from this hour to part!
We'll live and love ſo true,
The ſigh that rends thy conſtant heart,
Shall break thy Edwin's too;
Breaks Angelina's too.
Exeunt Angelina and Edwin.
Ruttek.

So you are a woman, he, he, he: what a confounded fool have I been not to diſcover it ſooner—Then, O mercy! what a legion of lies you have been telling about the Baſhaw, the Mufti, the Grand Vizier, the Janiſſary, their wives, their concubines, and their tails—What, think you of me?

Annette.

Tolerable enough, as a Tinker; but moſt abominably as a man.—

Ruttekin.

They are going to—to—to—marry.

Annette.

What then?

Ruttek.

I have a great mind to pop the queſtion to her.—So I will—No I wont

(aſide.)

—Tell me, thou ſilver ſkinned laſs with the golden locks, will you?—

Annette.

What?

Ruttek.

Nothing—Yes—but I'll tell you as we trip along—Never ſaw a girl better made for carrying a tinker's budget.—But come, now for the marriage feſtival.

[70]

AIR.

We'll to the bow'r of Robin Hood,
This is his wedding day;
And merrily in blithe Sherwood,
Brideſmaids and brideſmen play.
Then follow me my bonny laſs,
And we'll the paſtimes ſee;
For the minſtrells ſing,
And the ſweet bells ring,
And they feaſt right merrily, merrily.
The humming beer flows round in pails,
With mead that's ſtout and old;
And am'rous virgins tell love tales,
To thaw the heart that's cold.
Then follow me, &c.
There dancing ſprightly on the green,
Each light-foot lad and laſs;
Sly ſtealing kiſſes when unſeen,
And jingling glaſs with glaſs.
Then follow me, &c.
Exeunt.
SCENE changes to the outſide of ROBIN HOOD's bower. Enter JOHN, SCARLET, and STELLA.
Scarlet.

Allen, your forgiveneſs makes me your friend forever; and believe me, John, you have my warmeſt thanks: in protecting female innocence, you only performed a duty incumbent on every man. But how can I ever expiate the injury I intended you, fair Stella?

Stella.

Your promiſe of marriage to poor weeping Martha, proves your repentance; and I not only forgive, but will, as far as poſſible, forget your tranſgreſſion.

Scarlet.

Then I am ſatisfied.—From this day, Martha ſhall find me kind and conſtant, and in promoting her happineſs, I'll ſecure my own.

Stella.
[71]

Your converſion makes us all happy, as far as it is poſſible for us to be ſo.

AIR.

Hark! the warbling choir ſings,
Hark! the azure welkin rings,
Hills with joy reſound;
Cowſlips glad the laughing fields,
Fragrant thyme its odour yields,
Violets breathe around.
Elms their verdant honours ſpread,
Dew-drops gild the moſſy bed,
Daiſies bloom among;
Soft and joyous through the ſkies,
Thouſand ſprightly voices riſe,
Echo joins the ſong.
Bliſsful ſcenes ſoon paſs away,
Pride's the glimmer of a day,
Flies on rapid wing;
Learn to know, vain mortal man,
Fleeting life is but a ſpan,
Emblem of the ſpring.
Enter RUTTEKIN.
Ruttek.

Save you, gentle folks.—Here am I returned with my ſtomach hollow as an empty ſauce-pan. The hermit is arrived, and with him two ſtrangers. Where is madam Clorinda? where is bold Robin? Here is a fine Lord, with a brave train, juſt alighted—Lord a' mercy on us!— Where are all the archers? Where is John, Scarlet, &c.—Here, here—this way, this way.

[72] Flouriſh. The SCENE draws, and diſcovers the inſide of ROBIN's bower; the FRIAR dreſſed as Baron FITZHERBERT, CLORINDA, ANGELINA, STELLA, ALLEN, ANNETTE, &c.
Clorinda.

My dear uncle, you have performed your promiſe nobly.

Fitzherbert.

I am no longer a tippling curtel Friar, but Baron Fitzherbert; and behold my credentials.—

(Takes out a parchment.)

—His Majeſty's free pardon to all within the Foreſt.

John.

Mercy! What virtue lies in a piece of parchment with a bit of wax to it!

Fitzh.

Your humanity and benevolence have obliterated from the Royal breaſt every remembrance of reſentment. I have it in command to inveſt you with your former dignities, honours, manors, and caſtles; and now ſalute you, Robert, Earl of Huntingdon.

John.

Now I like this—But what preferment, place, or penſion, have you got for me?

Fitzh.

As you are a juſt judge, John, chuſe for yourſelf—Will you be hanged up, or cut down?— Nay, no anſwer after conviction, or I ſhall produce four reaſons.

John.

A fig for your reaſons!—Here is my ſugar-plumb.

Tak [...]ng Stella by the hand.
Fitzh.

Clorinda, I beſtow you on Robin with all my heart; and to you, my daughter, I preſent your faithful lover.—And may beauty and virtue ever reward conſtancy.

Robin.

The Royal bounty overpowers me, and your goodneſs ſoftens my heart, even to infant tenderneſs. This day we dedicate to love.—Tomorrow I will re-aſſume my ſtation, and, in the ſervice of my King and Country, lead my merry archers to victory.

[73]

FINALE.

SCARLET and STELLA.
Let the muſic ſprightly play,
This is Hymen's holiday;
Smiling virtues him await,
Guardian of the married ſtate.
CHORUS. Let the muſic, &c.
Roſeat God of ſoft deſire,
Mirth and wit, and ſong inſpire;
Each fond heart elate with joy,
Honeſt love can never cloy.
CHORUS. Let the, &c.
ANGELINA and EDWIN.
Dimpled innocence appear,
Free from ſorrow, void of fear;
Thy fair ſiſter bring with thee,
Captivating Modeſty.
CHORUS. Let the, &c.

CATCH.

FRIAR, RUTTEKIN, and JOHN.
Fill the foaming horn up high,
Nor let tuneful lips be dry;
Let the brimming goblet ſmile,
Blood-red wine our cares beguile
ROBIN and CLORINDA.
[74]
Strains of liberty we'll ſing,
To our country, Queen, and King;
To thoſe friends, who often here
With their ſmiles our boſoms cheer.
CHORUS. Strains of, &c.
FINIS.
Notes
*
The Hermit of the Dale is taken from a ballad called, the Friar of orders Grey, which is taken from an old ballad called the Herdſman.
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Citation Suggestion for this Object
TextGrid Repository (2020). TEI. 4462 Robin Hood or Sherwood Forest a comic opera As it is performed at the Theatre Royal in Covent Garden By Leonard Mac Nally Esq. University of Oxford Text Archive. . https://hdl.handle.net/21.T11991/0000-001A-5DB2-3