All.  Like beasts.

Mar. (Opening his eyes.) Like beasts.

Dan.  To sleep, wagtail!

Fran.  I marvel all this while where the old gentleman has found means to secrete himself.  It seems no man has heard of him since the day of the King’s return.  Can any tell why our young master, being favored by the court, should not have interest to procure his father’s pardon?

Dan.  Marry, I think ’tis the obstinacy of the old knight, that will not be beholden to the court for his safety.

Mar.  Now that is wilful.

Fran.  But can any tell me the place of his concealment?

Peter.  That cannot I; but I have my conjectures.

Dan.  Two hundred pounds, as I hear, to the man that shall apprehend him.

Fran.  Well, I have my suspicions.

Peter.  And so have I.

Mar.  And I can keep a secret.

Fran. (to PETER.) Warwickshire, you mean. [Aside.

Peter.  Perhaps not.

Fran.  Nearer, perhaps.

Peter.  I say nothing.

Dan.  I hope there is none in this company would be mean enough to betray him.

All.  O Lord, surely not.

[They drink to SIR WALTER’S safety.

Fran.  I have often wondered how our master came to be excepted by name in the late Act of Oblivion.

Dan.  Shall I tell the reason?

All.  Ay, do.

Dan.  ’Tis thought he is no great friend to the present happy establishment.

All.  O! monstrous!

Peter.  Fellow-servants, a thought strikes me.—­Do we, or do we not, come under the penalties of the treason-act, by reason of our being privy to this man’s concealment?

All.  Truly a sad consideration.

[To them enters SANDFORD suddenly.

Sand.  You well-fed and unprofitable grooms,
Maintain’d for state, not use;
You lazy feasters at another’s cost,
That eat like maggots into an estate,
And do as little work. 
Being indeed but foul excrescences,
And no just parts in a well-order’d family;
You base and rascal imitators,
Who act up to the height your master’s vices,
But cannot read his virtues in your bond: 
Which of you, as I enter’d, spake of betraying? 
Was it you, or you, or thin-face, was it you?

Mar.  Whom does he call thin-face?

Sand.  No prating, loon, but tell me who he was,
That I may brain the villain with my staff,
That seeks Sir Walter’s life! 
You miserable men,
With minds more slavish than your slave’s estate,
Have you that noble bounty so forgot,
Which took you from the looms, and from the ploughs,
Which better had ye follow’d, fed ye, clothed