Fitz. Well did he write, and mickle did he know,
That said “This world’s felicity was woe,
Which greatest states can hardly undergo.”
Whilem Fitzwater in fair England’s Court
Possest felicity and happy state,
And in his hall blithe Fortune kept her sport;
Which glee one hour of woe did ruinate.
Fitzwater once had castles, towns, and towers;
Fair gardens, orchards, and delightful bowers;
But now nor garden, orchard, town, nor tower
Hath poor Fitzwater left within his power.
Only wide walks are left me in the world,
Which these stiff limbs will hardly let me tread:
And when I sleep, heavn’s glorious canopy
Me and my mossy couch doth overspread.
He discovers Robin Hood sleeping; Marian strewing flowers over him.
Fitz.—in good time see where my comfort stands,
And by her lies dejected Huntingdon.
Look how my Flower holds flowers in her hands,
And flings those sweets upon my sleeping son.
Feigns himself blind, to try if she will know him.
Marian. What aged man art thou? or by what chance
Camest thou thus far into the wayless wood?
Fitz. Widow, or wife, or maiden, if thou be;
Lend me thy hand: thou see’st I cannot see.
Blessing betide thee! little feel’st thou want;
With me, good child, food is both hard and scant.
These smooth even veins assure me, He is kind,
Whate’er he be, my girl, that thee doth find.
I poor and old am reft of all earth’s good;
And desperately am crept into this wood,
To seek the poor man’s patron, Robin Hood.
Marian. And thou art welcome, welcome, aged man,
Aye ten times welcome to Maid Marian.
Here’s wine to cheer thy heart; drink, aged man.
There’s venison, and a knife; here’s manchet fine.—
My Robin stirs: I must sing him asleep.
A Judgment.
A Wicked Prior. Servingman.
Prior. What news with you, Sir?
Serv. Ev’n heavy news, my Lord; for the light fire,
Falling in manner of a fire-drake
Upon a barn of yours, hath burnt six barns,
And not a strike of corn reserv’d from dust.
No hand could save it; yet ten thousand hands
Labour’d their best, though none for love of you:
For every tongue with bitter cursing bann’d
Your Lordship, as the viper of the land.
Prior. What meant the villains?
Serv. Thus and thus they cried:
“Upon this churl, this hoarder up of corn,
This spoiler of the Earl of Huntingdon,
This lust-defiled, merciless, false Prior,
Heav’n raineth judgment down in shape of fire.”
Old wives that scarce could with their crutches creep,
And little babes that newly learn’d to speak,
Men masterless that thorough want did weep,
All in one voice with a confused cry
In execrations bann’d you bitterly.
“Plague follow plague,” they cried; “he hath undone
The good Lord Robert, Earl of Huntingdon.”
[From “Phillis of Scyros,” a Dramatic Pastoral, Author Unknown, 1655.]