PRIOR.  I ask but judgment for my foul transgression.

KING.  Thy own mouth hath condemn’d thee. 
Hence with him! 
Hang this man dead, then see him buried;
But let the other hang alive in chains.

DON.  I thank you, sir.

        [Exeunt Yeomen, FRIAR, Prisoners, MUCH.

JOHN.  Myself will go, my lord,
And see sharp justice done upon these slaves.

ROB.  H. O, go not hence, Prince John! a word or two,
Before I die, I fain would say to you.

KING.  Robin, we see what we are sad to see—­
Death, like a champion, treading down thy life: 
Yet in thy end, somewhat to comfort thee,
We freely give to thy betrothed wife,
Beauteous and chaste Matilda, all those lands,
Fallen by thy folly to the Prior’s hands,
And by his fault now forfeited to me. 
Earl Huntington, she shall thy countess be: 
And thy wight yeomen, they shall wend with me
Against the faithless enemies of Christ.

ROB.  H. Bring forth a bier, and cover it with green;
That on my deathbed I may here sit down.
                   [A bier is brought in.  He sits. 
At Robin’s burial let no black be seen,
Let no hand give for him a mourning gown;
For in his death his king hath given him life
By this large gift, given to his maiden wife. 
Chaste maid Matilda, countess of account,
Chase with thy bright eyes all these clouds of woe
From these fair cheeks; I pray thee, sweet, do so: 
Think it is bootless folly to complain
For that which never can be had again. 
Queen Elinor, you once were Matilda’s foe;
Prince John, you long sought her unlawful love: 
Let dying Robin Hood entreat you both
To change those passions:  madam, turn your hate
To princely love:  Prince John, convert your love
To virtuous passion, chaste and moderate. 
O, that your gracious right hands would enfold
Matilda’s right hand, prison’d in my palm,
And swear to do what Robin Hood desires!

QUEEN.  I swear I will:  I will a mother be
To fair Matilda’s life and chastity.

JOHN.  When John solicits chaste Matilda’s ears
With lawless suits, as he hath often done,
Or offers to the altars of her eyes
Lascivious poems, stuff’d with vanities,
He craves to see but short and sour days: 
His death be like to Robin’s he desires;
His perjured body prove a poison’d prey
For cowled monks and barefoot begging friars.

ROB.  H. Enough, enough!  Fitzwater, take your child. 
My dying frost, which no sun’s heat can thaw,
Closes the powers of all my outward parts: 
My freezing blood runs back unto my heart,
Where it assists death, which it would resist: 
Only my love a little hinders death,
For he beholds her eyes, and cannot smite: 
Then go not yet, Matilda, stay awhile. 
Friar, make speed, and list my latest will.

MAT.  O, let me look for ever in thy eyes,
And lay my warm breath to thy bloodless lips,
If my sight can restrain death’s tyrannies,
Or keep life’s breath within thy bosom lock’d.