Larry. To be sure we're in a parlous case. The forest laws are dev'lish severe here: an they catch us trespassing upon their hunting ground, we shall pay a neat poll-tax: nothing less than our heads will serve.
Robin. Our heads?
Walter. Yes, faith! they'll soon collect their capitation.
They wear men's heads, sir, hanging at the breast,
Instead of jewels; and at either ear,
Most commonly, a child's, by way of ear-drop.
Robin. Oh! curse their finery! jewels, heads, O Lord!
Larry. Pshaw man! don't fear. Perhaps they'll only burn us.
What a delicate roasted Robin you wou'd make!
Troth! they'd so lick their lips!
Robin. A roasted robin!—
Walter. Tut! if they only burn us, 'twill be brave.
Robin shall make our death-songs.
Robin. Death-songs, oh!
[Robin stands motionless with fear.
Larry. By the good looking right eye of Saint Patrick,
There's Rolfe and Percy, with a tribe of Indians.