No notable alteration occurs until we come to the second scene, which in the MS. (owing to the transposition of Woodvil’s soliloquy) followed immediately on Lovel’s reply to Woodvil’s speech—­

No, you shall go with me into the gallery—­

printed on page 164.

Scene the Second.  Sherwood Forest.  Sir Walter Woodvil, Simon, drest as
Frenchmen.

Sir Walter’s opening speech is long in print [page 166]—­in MS. it is but this:—­

Sir Walter.  How fares my boy, Simon, my youngest born,
              My hope, my pride, young Woodvil, speak to me;
              Thinkest thy brother plays thy father false? 
              My life upon his faith and noble heart;
              Son John could never play thy father false.

There is no further material change to note until we come to the point in the conversation between Sir Walter, Simon and Margaret [page 172], where Simon calls John “a scurvy brother,” to whom Margaret responds:—­

Margaret.  I speak no slander, Simon, of your brother,
              He is still the first of men.

Simon.  I would fain learn that, if you please.

Margaret.  Had’st rather hear his praises in the mass
              Or parcel’d out in each particular?

Simon.  So please you, in the detail:  general praise
              We’ll leave to his Epitaph-maker.

Margaret.  I will begin then—­
              His face is Fancy’s tablet, where the witch
              Paints, in her fine caprice, ever new forms,
              Making it apt all workings of the soul,
              All passions and their changes to display;
              His eye, attention’s magnet, draws all hearts.

Simon.  Is this all about your son, Sir?

Margaret.  Pray let me proceed.  His tongue....

Simon.  Well skill’d in lying, no doubt—­

Sir Walter.  Ungracious boy! will you not hear her out?

Margaret.  His tongue well skill’d in sweetness to discuss—­
              (False tongue that seem’d for love-vows only fram’d)—­

Simon.  Did I not say so?

Margaret.  All knowledge and all topics of converse,
              Ev’n all the infinite stuff of men’s debate
              From matter of fact, to the heights of metaphysick,
              How could she think that noble mind
              So furnish’d, so innate in all perfections,
              The manners and the worth
              That go to the making up of a complete Gentleman,
              Could from his proper nature so decline
              And from that starry height of place he mov’d in
              To link his fortune to a lowly Lady
              Who nothing with her brought but her plain heart,
              And truth of love that never swerv’d from Woodvil.