How often, when the Sun, heavens
brightest birth,
Hath with his burning fervour
cleft the earth,
Under a spreading Elme, or
Oake, hard by
A coole cleare fountaine,
could I sleeping lie,
Safe from the heate? but now,
no shadie tree,
Nor purling brook, can my
refreshing bee?
Oft when the medowes were
growne rough with frost,
The rivers ice-bound, and
their currents lost,
My thick warme fleece, I wore,
was my defence,
Or large good fires, I made,
drave winter thence.
But now, my whole flocks fells,
nor this thick grove,
Enflam’d to ashes, can
my cold remove;
It is a cold and heat, that
doth out-goe
All sense of Winters, and
of Summers so. (II. iv.)
To the shepherdesses enters Robin, who upbraids Marian for her late conduct towards him and his guests. She of course protests ignorance of the whole affair, bids Scathlock fetch again the venison, and remains unconvinced of Robin’s being in earnest, till Maudlin herself comes to thank her for the gift. Marian endeavours to treat with the witch, and begs her to return the venison sent through some mistake, but Maudlin declares that she has already departed it among her poor neighbours. At this moment, however, Scathlock returns with the deer on his shoulders, to the discomfiture of the witch, who curses the feast, and after tormenting poor Amie, who between sleeping and waking betrays the origin of her disease, departs in an evil humour. The scene is noteworthy for its delicate comedy and pathos.