Enter OLD FITZWATER.

But out, alas! yonder comes one to me
To hinder death, when I detest to live.

FITZ.  What woful voice hear I within this wood? 
What wretch is there complains of wretchedness?

WAR.  A man, old man, bereav’d of all earth’s good,
And desperately seeks death in this distress.

FITZ.  Seek not for that which will be here too soon,
At least, if thou be guilty of ill-deeds. 
Where art thou, son? come, and nearer sit: 
Hear wholesome counsel ’gainst unhallow’d thoughts.

WAR.  The man is blind.  Muffle the eye of day,
Ye gloomy clouds (and darker than my deeds,
That darker be than pitchy sable night)
Muster together on these high-topp’d trees,
That not a spark of light thorough their sprays
May hinder what I mean to execute.

FITZ.  What dost thou mutter?  Hear me woful man.

    Enter MARIAN with meat.

MAR.  Good morrow, father.

FITZ.  Welcome, lovely maid;
And in good time, I trust, you hither come. 
Look if you see not a distressful man,
That to himself intendeth violence: 
One such even now was here, and is not far. 
Seek, I beseech you; save him, if you may.

MAR.  Alas! here is, here is a man enrag’d,
Fastening a halter on a wither’d bough,
And stares upon me with such frighted looks,
As I am fearful of his sharp aspect.

FITZ.  What mean’st thou, wretch? say, what is’t thou wilt do?

WAR.  As Judas did, so I intend to do,
For I have done already as he did: 
His master he betray’d, so I have mine. 
Fair mistress, look not on me with your blessed eyne: 
From them, as from some excellence divine,
Sparkles sharp judgment, and commands with speed. 
Fair, fare you well:  foul fortune is my fate;
As all betrayers, I die desperate.

FITZ.  Soft, ho!  Go, Marian, call in Robin Hood: 
’Tis Warman, woman, that was once his steward.

MAR.  Alas! although it be, yet save his life! 
I will send help unto you presently. [Exit.

FITZ.  Nay, Warman, stay; thou shalt have thy will.

WAR.  Art thou a blind man, and canst see my shame? 
To hinder treachers God restoreth sight,
And giveth infants tongues to cry aloud
A woful woe against the treacherous.

    Enter MUCH, running.

MUCH.  Hold, hold, hold!  I hear say my fellow Warman is about to hang himself, and make I some speed to save him a labour.  O good master, Justice Shrieve, have you execution in hand, and is there such a murrain among thieves and hangmen, that you play two parts in one?  For old acquaintance, I will play one part.  The knot under the ear, the knitting to the tree:  Good Master Warman, leave that work for me.

WAR.  Despatch me, Much, and I will pray for thee.

MUCH.  Nay, keep your prayers, nobody sees us.
                   [He takes the rope, and offers to climb.