SCENE II.

    Enter, as it were in haste, the PRIOR OF YORK, the
    SHERIFF, Justice WARMAN, Steward to ROBIN HOOD.

PRIOR.  Here, Master Warman, there’s a hundred crowns
For your good-will and futherance in this.

WAR.  I thank you, my Lord Prior.  I must away,
To shun suspicion; but be resolute,
And we will take him, have no doubt of it.

PRIOR.  But is Lord Sentloe and the other come?

WAR.  Lord Sentloe, Sir Hugh Lacy, and Sir Gilbert Broughton
Are there, and as they promis’d you last night,
Will help to take him, when the Sheriff comes.
                                     [Exit WARMAN.

PRIOR.  Awhile, farewell, and thanks to them and you. 
Come, Master Sheriff, the outlawry is proclaim’d,
Send therefore quickly for more company,
And at the back-gate we will enter in.

SHER.  We shall have much ado, I am afraid.

PRIOR.  No, they are very merry at a feast;
A feast where Marian, daughter to Lord Lacy,
Is troth-plighted to wasteful Huntington;
And at the feast are my especial friends,
Whom he suspects not.  Come, we’ll have him, man,
And for your pains here is a hundred marks.

SHER.  I thank your lordship:  we’ll be diligent.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

Enter ROBIN HOOD, LITTLE JOHN following him; the one Earl of Huntington, the other his servant, ROBIN having his napkin on his shoulder, as if he were suddenly raised from dinner.

ROB.  H. As I am outlaw’d from my fame and state,
Be this day outlawed from the name of days. 
Day luckless, outlaw luckless, both accurs’d!
    [Flings away his napkin and hat, and sitteth down.

LIT.  JOHN.  Do not forget your honourable state,
Nor the true noblesse of your worthy house.

ROB.  H. Do not persuade me; vain as vanity
Are all thy comforts:  I am comfortless.

LIT.  JOHN.  Hear me, my lord.

ROB.  H. What shall I hear thee say? 
Already hast thou said too much to hear: 
Already hast thou stabb’d me with thy tongue,
And the wide wound with words will not be clos’d. 
Am I not outlaw’d by the Prior of York? 
Proclaim’d in court, in city, and in town
A lawless person? this thy tongue reports,
And therefore seek not to make smooth my grief;
For the rough storm thy windy words have rais’d,
Will not be calm’d, till I in grave be laid.

LIT.  JOHN.  Have patience yet.

ROB.  H. Yea, now indeed thou speakest. 
Patience hath power to bear a greater cross
Than honour’s spoil or any earthly loss.

LIT.  JOHN.  Do so, my lord.

ROB.  H. Ay, now I would begin: 
But see, another scene of grief comes in.