His dear heart’s confessor, a heart within that heart,
And all dear things summ’d up in her alone. 
As Margaret smil’d or frown’d John liv’d or died;
His dress, speech, gesture, studies, friendships, all
Being fashion’d to her liking. 
His flatteries taught me first this self-esteem,
His flatteries and caresses, while he loved. 
The world esteem’d her happy, who had won
His heart, who won all hearts;
And ladies envied me the love of Woodvil.

Sand.  He doth affect the courtier’s life too much,
Whose art is to forget,
And that has wrought this seeming change in him,
That was by nature noble. 
’Tis these court-plagues, that swarm about our house,
Have done the mischief, making his fancy giddy
With images of state, preferment, place,
Tainting his generous spirits with ambition.

Marg.  I know not how it is;
A cold protector is John grown to me. 
The mistress, and presumptive wife, of Woodvil
Can never stoop so low to supplicate
A man, her equal, to redress those wrongs,
Which he was bound first to prevent;
But which his own neglects have sanctioned rather,
Both sancion’d and provok’d:  a mark’d neglect,
And strangeness fastening bitter on his love,
His love, which long has been upon the wane. 
For me, I am determined what to do: 
To leave this house this night, and lukewarm John,
And trust for food to the earth and Providence.

Sand.  O lady, have a care
Of these indefinite and spleen-bred resolves. 
You know not half the dangers that attend
Upon a life of wand’ring, which your thoughts now,
Feeling the swellings of a lofty anger,
To your abused fancy, as ’tis likely,
Portray without its terrors, painting lies
And representments of fallacious liberty;—­
You know not what it is to leave the roof that shelters you.

Marg.  I have thought on every possible event,
The dangers and discouragements you speak of,
Even till my woman’s heart hath ceased to fear them,
And cowardice grows enamor’d of rare accidents;
Nor am I so unfurnish’d, as you think,
Of practicable schemes.

Sand.  Now God forbid; think twice of this, dear lady.

Marg.  I pray you spare me, Mr. Sandford.  And once for all believe, nothing can shake my purpose.

Sand.  But what course have you thought on?

Marg.  To seek Sir Walter in the forest of Sherwood. 
I have letters from young Simon,
Acquainting me with all the circumstances
Of their concealment, place, and manner of life,
And the merry hours they spend in the green haunts
Of Sherwood, nigh which place they have ta’en a house
In the town of Nottingham, and pass for foreigners,
Wearing the dress of Frenchmen.—­
All which I have perused with so attent
And child-like longings, that to my doting ears
Two sounds now seem like one,
One meaning in two words, Sherwood and Liberty. 
And, gentle Mr. Sandford,
’Tis you that must provide now
The means of my departure, which for safety
Must be in boy’s apparel.