Who live by observation, note these changes
Of the popular mind, and thereby serve their ends. 
Then why not I?  What’s Charles to me, or Oliver,
But as my own advancement hangs on one of them? 
I to myself am chief.——­I know,
Some shallow mouths cry out, that I am smit
With the gauds and show of state, the point of place,
And trick of precedence, the ducks, and nods
Which weak minds pay to rank.  ’Tis not to sit
In place of worship at the royal masques,
Their pastimes, plays, and Whitehall banquetings,
For none of these,
Nor yet to be seen whispering with some great one,
Do I affect the favors of the court. 
I would be great, for greatness hath great power,
And that’s the fruit I reach at.—­
Great spirits ask great play-room.  Who could sit,
With these prophetic swellings in my breast,
That prick and goad me on, and never cease,
To the fortunes something tells me I was born to? 
Who, with such monitors within to stir him,
Would sit him down, with lazy arms across,
A unit, a thing without a name in the state,
A something to be govern’d, not to govern,
A fishing, hawking, hunting, country gentleman?
          
                                               [Exit.

SCENE.—­Sherwood Forest.

SIR WALTER WOODVIL.  SIMON WOODVIL. (Disguised as Frenchmen.)

Sir W.  How fares my boy, Simon, my youngest born,
My hope, my pride, young Woodvil, speak to me? 
Some grief untold weighs heavy at thy heart: 
I know it by thy alter’d cheer of late. 
Thinkest thy brother plays thy father false? 
It is a mad and thriftless prodigal,
Grown proud upon the favors of the court;
Court manners, and court fashions, he affects,
And in the heat and uncheck’d blood of youth,
Harbors a company of riotous men,
All hot, and young, court-seekers, like himself,
Most skilful to devour a patrimony;
And these have eat into my old estates,
And these have drain’d thy father’s cellars dry;
But these so common faults of youth not named,
(Things which themselves outgrow, left to themselves,)
I know no quality that stains his honor. 
My life upon his faith and noble mind,
Son John could never play thy father false.

Simon.  I never thought but nobly of my brother,
Touching his honor and fidelity. 
Still I could wish him charier of his person,
And of his time more frugal, than to spend
In riotous living, graceless society,
And mirth unpalatable, hours better employ’d
(With those persuasive graces nature lent him)
In fervent pleadings for a father’s life.

Sir W.  I would not owe my life to a jealous court,
Whose shallow policy I know it is,
On some reluctant acts of prudent mercy,
(Not voluntary, but extorted by the times,
In the first tremblings of new-fixed power,
And recollection smarting from old wounds,)
On these to build a spurious popularity. 
Unknowing what free grace or mercy mean,
They fear to punish, therefore do they pardon. 
For this cause have I oft forbid my son,
By letters, overtures, open solicitings,
Or closet tamperings, by gold or fee,
To beg or bargain with the court for my life.