CHES.  Farewell, Fitzwater:  wheresoe’er thou be,
By letters, I beseech thee, send to me.
                               [Exit CHESTER.

FITZ.  Chester, I will, I will. 
Heavens turn to good this woe, this wrong, this ill.

[Exit.

SCENE II.

Enter SCATHLOCK and SCARLET, winding their horns, at several doors.  To them enter ROBIN HOOD, MATILDA, all in green, SCATHLOCK’S MOTHER, MUCH, LITTLE JOHN:  all the men with bows and arrows.

ROB.  H. Widow, I wish thee homeward now to wend,
Lest Warman’s malice work thee any wrong.

WID.  Master, I will; and mickle good attend
On thee, thy love, and all these yeomen strong.

MAT.  Forget not, widow, what you promis’d me.

MUCH.  O, ay, mistress; for God’s sake let’s have Jenny.

WID.  You shall have Jenny sent you with all speed. 
Sons, farewell, and, by your mother’s reed,
Love well your master:  blessing ever fall
On him, your mistress, and these yeomen tall.
          
                             [Exit.

MUCH.  God be with you, mother:  have much mind, I pray, on Much your son, and your daughter Jenny.

ROB.  H. Wind once more, jolly huntsmen, all your horns;
Whose shrill sound, with the echoing wood’s assist,
Shall ring a sad knell for the fearful deer,
Before our feathered shafts, death’s winged darts,
Bring sudden summons for their fatal ends.

SCAR.  It’s full seven years since we were outlaw’d first,
And wealthy Sherwood was our heritage: 
For all those years we reigned uncontroll’d,
From Barnsdale shrogs to Nottingham’s red cliffs;
At Blithe and Tickhill were we welcome guests. 
Good George-a-Greene at Bradford was our friend,
And wanton Wakefield’s Pinner[200] lov’d us well. 
At Barnsley dwells a potter tough and strong,
That never brook’d we brethren should have wrong. 
The nuns of Farnsfield (pretty nuns they be)
Gave napkins, shirts, and bands to him and me. 
Bateman of Kendal gave us Kendal green,
And Sharpe of Leeds sharp arrows for us made: 
At Rotheram dwelt our bowyer, God him bless;
Jackson he hight, his bows did never miss. 
This for our good—­our scathe let Scathlock tell,
In merry Mansfield how it once befell.

SCATH.  In merry Mansfield, on a wrestling day,
Prizes there were, and yeomen came to play;
My brother Scarlet and myself were twain. 
Many resisted, but it was in vain,
For of them all we won the mastery,
And the gilt wreaths were given to him and me. 
There by Sir Doncaster of Hothersfield
We were bewray’d, beset, and forc’d to yield,
And so borne bound from thence to Nottingham,
Where we lay doom’d to death till Warman came.

ROB.  H. Of that enough.  What cheer, my dearest love?