Lovel.  I hope you think me worthy.

John.  You will smile to hear now—­ Sir Walter never has been out of the island.

Lovel.  You amaze me.

John.  That same report of his escape to France
Was a fine tale, forged by myself—­
Ha! ha! 
I knew it would stagger him.

Lovel.  Pray, give me leave.  Where has he dwelt, how lived, how lain conceal’d?  Sure I may ask so much.

John.  From place to place, dwelling in no place long,
My brother Simon still hath borne him company,
(’Tis a brave youth, I envy him all his virtues). 
Disguised in foreign garb, they pass for Frenchmen,
Two Protestant exiles from the Limousin
Newly arrived.  Their dwelling’s now at Nottingham,
Where no soul knows them.

Lovel.  Can you assign any reason why a gentleman of Sir Walter’s known prudence should expose his person so lightly?

John.  I believe, a certain fondness, A childlike cleaving to the land that gave him birth, Chains him like fate.

Lovel.  I have known some exiles thus To linger out the term of the law’s indulgence, To the hazard of being known.

John.  You may suppose sometimes
They use the neighb’ring Sherwood for their sport,
Their exercise and freer recreation.—­
I see you smile.  Pray now, be careful.

Lovel.  I am no babbler, sir; you need not fear me.

John.  But some men have been known to talk in their sleep, And tell fine tales that way.

Lovel.  I have heard so much.  But, to say truth, I mostly sleep alone.

John.  Or drink, sir? do you never drink too freely?  Some men will drink, and tell you all their secrets.

Lovel.  Why do you question me, who know my habits?

John.  I think you are no sot
No tavern-troubler, worshipper of the grape;
But all men drink sometimes,
And veriest saints at festivals relax,
The marriage of a friend, or a wife’s birthday.

Lovel.  How much, sir, may a man with safety drink?
          
                                           [Smiling.

John.  Sir, three half-pints a day is reasonable; I care not if you never exceed that quantity.

Lovel.  I shall observe it; On holidays two quarts.

John.  Or, stay; you keep no wench?

Lovel.  Ha!

John.  No painted mistress for your private hours?  You keep no whore, sir?

Lovel.  What does he mean?

John.  Who for a close embrace, a toy of sin,
And amorous praising of your worship’s breath,
In rosy junction of four melting lips,
Can kiss out secrets from you?

Lovel.  How strange this passionate behavior shows in you Sure, you think me some weak one.