Simon. A melancholy catastrophe. For my part I shall never die for love, being as I am, too general-contemplative for the narrow passion. I am in some sort a general lover.
Margaret. In the name of the Boy-god who plays at blind man's buff with the Muses, and cares not whom he catches; what is it you love?
And so on until the end of Simon's famous description of the delights of forest life [page 173]. To this
Margaret (smiling). And afterwards them paint in simile.
(To Sir Walter.) I had some foolish questions to put concerning your son, Sir.—Was John so early valiant as hath been reported? I have heard some legends of him.
Sir Walter. You shall not call them so. Report, in most things superfluous, in many things altogether an inventress, hath been but too modest in the delivery of John's true stories.
Margaret. Proceed, Sir.
Sir Walter. I saw him on the day of Naseby Fight—
To which he came at twice seven years,
Under the discipline of the Lord Ashley,
His uncle by the mother's side,
Who gave his early principles a bent
Quite from the politics of his father's house.
Margaret. I have heard so much.
Sir Walter. There did I see this valiant Lamb of Mars,
This sprig of honour, this unbearded John,
This veteran in green years, this sprout, this Woodvil,
With dreadless ease, guiding a fire-hot steed
Which seem'd to scorn the manage of a boy,
Prick forth with such an ease into the field
To mingle rivalship and deeds of wrath
Even with the sinewy masters of the art[37]!
The rough fanatic and blood-practis'd soldiery
Seeing such hope and virtue in the boy,
Disclosed their ranks to let him pass unhurt,
Checking their swords' uncivil injuries
As both to mar that curious workmanship
Of valour's beauty in his youthful face.