SIR WALTER
    Fair death shall be my doom, and foul life his. 
    Till when, we’ll live as free in this green forest
    As yonder deer, who roam unfearing treason: 
    Who seem the Aborigines of this place,
    Or Sherwood theirs by tenure.

    SIMON
    ’Tis said, that Robert Earl of Huntingdon,
    Men call’d him Robin Hood, an outlaw bold,
    With a merry crew of hunters here did haunt,
    Not sparing the king’s venison.  May one believe
    The antique tale?

    SIR WALTER

    There is much likelihood,
    Such bandits did in England erst abound,
    When polity was young.  I have read of the pranks
    Of that mad archer, and of the tax he levied
    On travellers, whatever their degree,
    Baron, or knight, whoever pass’d these woods,
    Layman, or priest, not sparing the bishop’s mitre
    For spiritual regards; nay, once, ’tis said,
    He robb’d the king himself.

    SIMON
    A perilous man. (Smiling.)

    SIR WALTER
    How quietly we live here,
    Unread in the world’s business,
    And take no note of all its slippery changes. 
    ’Twere best we make a world among ourselves,
    A little world,
    Without the ills and falsehoods of the greater: 
    We two being all the inhabitants of ours,
    And kings and subjects both in one.

    SIMON
    Only the dangerous errors, fond conceits,
    Which make the business of that greater world,
    Must have no place in ours: 
    As, namely, riches, honors, birth, place, courtesy,
    Good fame and bad, rumours and popular noises,
    Books, creeds, opinions, prejudices national,
    Humours particular,
    Soul-killing lies, and truths that work small good,
    Feuds, factions, enmities, relationships,
    Loves, hatreds, sympathies, antipathies,
    And all the intricate stuff quarrels are made of.

    (Margaret enters in boy’s apparel.)

    SIR WALTER
    What pretty boy have we here?

MARGARET Bon jour, messieurs.  Ye have handsome English faces, I should have ta’en you else for other two, I came to seek in the forest.

    SIR WALTER
    Who are they?

    MARGARET
    A gallant brace of Frenchmen, curled monsieurs,
    That, men say, haunt these woods, affecting privacy,
    More than the manner of their countrymen.

    SIMON
    We have here a wonder. 
    The face is Margaret’s face.

    SIR WALTER
    The face is Margaret’s, but the dress the same
    My Stephen sometimes wore.

    (To Margaret)

    Suppose us them; whom do men say we are? 
    Or know you what you seek?