Chapter 9

_Enter_ SCARLET, LITTLE JOHN, _and_ FRIAR TUCK.

FRIAR. Scarlet and John, so God me save, No mind unto my beads I have: I think it be a luckless day, For I can neither sing nor say; Nor have I any power to look On portace or on matin book.

SCAR. What is the reason, tell us, Friar?

FRIAR. And would ye have me be no liar?

LIT. JOHN. No. God defend that you should lie: A churchman be a liar?--fie!

FRIAR. Then, by this hallow'd crucifix, The holy water and the pix, It greatly at my stomach sticks, That all this day we had no gues',[226] And have of meat so many a mess.

MUCH _brings out_ ELY, _like a countryman with a basket_.

MUCH. Well, and ye be but a market, ye are but a market-man.

ELY. I am sure, sir, I do you no hurt, do I?

SCAR. We shall have company, no doubt: My fellow Much hath found one out.

FRIAR. A fox, a fox! as I am friar, Much is well worthy of good hire.

LIT. JOHN. Say, Friar, soothly, know'st thou him!

FRIAR. It is a wolf in a sheep's skin. Go, call our master, Little John; A glad man will he be anon. It's Ely, man, the chancellor. [_Aside_.]

LIT. JOHN. God's pity! look unto him, Friar. [_Aside. Exit_ LITTLE JOHN.

MUCH. What, ha' ye eggs to sell, old fellow?

ELY. Ay, sir, some few; and those my need constrains me bear to Mansfield, that I may sell them there to buy me bread.

SCAR. Alas, good man! I prythee, where dost dwell?

ELY. I dwell in Oxon, sir.

SCAR. I know the town.

MUCH. Alas, poor fellow! if thou dwell with oxen, it's strange they do not gore thee with their horns.

ELY. Masters, I tell ye truly where I dwell, And whither I am going; let me go. Your master would be much displeas'd, I know, If he should hear you hinder poor men thus.

FRIAR. Father, one word with you, before we part.

MUCH. Scarlet, the Friar will make us have anger all. Farewell; and bear me witness, though I stay'd him, I stay'd him not. An old fellow and a market man! [_Exit_.

FRIAR. Whoop! in your riddles, Much? then we shall ha't.

SCAR. What dost thou, Friar? prythee, let him go.

FRIAR. I prythee, Scarlet, let us two alone.

[_Exit_ SCAR.

ELY. Friar, I see thou know'st me: let me go, And many a good turn I to thee will owe.

FRIAR. My master's service bids me answer no, Yet love of holy churchmen wills it so. Well, good my lord, I will do what I may To let your holiness escape away.

_Enter_ ROBIN HOOD _and_ LITTLE JOHN.[227]

Here comes my master: if he question you, Answer him like a plain man, and you may pass.

ELY. Thanks, Friar.

FRIAR. O, my lord thinks me an ass.

ROB. H. Friar, what honest man is there with thee?

FRIAR. A silly man, good master. I will speak for you: Stand you aloof, for fear they note your face. [_To_ ELY.

Master, in plain, It were but in vain, Long to detain With toys or with babbles, With fond, feigned fables; But him that you see In so mean degree Is the Lord Ely, That help'd to exile you, That oft did revile you. Though in his fall His train be but small, And no man at all Will give him the wall, Nor lord doth him call, Yet he did ride, On jennets pied, And knights by his side Did foot it each tide. O, see the fall of pride.[228]

ROB. H. Friar, enough. [_Aside_.

FRIAR. I pray, sir, let him go, He is a very simple man in show: He dwells at Oxon, and to us doth say, To Mansfield market he doth take his way.

LIT. JOHN. Friar, this is not Mansfield market-day.

ROB. H. What would he sell?

FRIAR. Eggs, sir, as he says.

ROB. H. Scarlet, go thy ways: Take in this old man, fill his skin with venison, And after give him money for his eggs.

ELY. No, sir, I thank you, I have promis'd them To Master Bailey's wife, of Mansfield, all.

ROB. H. Nay, sir, you do me wrong: No Bailey nor his wife shall have an egg. Scarlet, I say, take his eggs, and give him money.

ELY. Pray, sir.

FRIAR. Tush, let him have your eggs.

ELY. Faith, I have none.

FRIAR. God's pity, then, he will find you some.[229]

SCAR. Here are no eggs, nor anything but hay. Yes, by the mass, here's somewhat like a seal!

ROB. H. O God! My prince's seal! fair England's royal seal! Tell me, thou man of death, thou wicked man, How cam'st thou by this seal? wilt thou not speak? Bring burning irons! I will make him speak. For I do know the poor distressed lord, The king's vicegerent, learned, reverend Ely, Flying the fury of ambitious John, Is murder'd by this peasant. Speak, vile man, Where thou hast done thrice honourable Ely!

ELY. Why dost thou grace Ely with styles of grace, Who thee with all his power sought to disgrace?

ROB. H. Belike, his wisdom saw some fault in me.

ELY. No, I assure thee, honourable earl; It was his envy, no defect of thine, And the persuasions of the Prior of York, Which Ely now repents. See, Huntington, Ely himself, and pity him, good son.

ROB. H. Alas, for woe! alack, that so great state The malice of this world should ruinate! Come in, great lord, sit down and take thy ease, Receive the seal, and pardon my offence. With me you shall be safe, and if you please, Till Richard come, from all men's violence. Aged Fitzwater, banished by John, And his fair daughter shall converse with you: I and my men that me attend upon Shall give you all that is to honour due. Will you accept my service, noble lord?

ELY. Thy kindness drives me to such inward shame, That, for my life, I no reply can frame. Go; I will follow. Blessed may'st thou be, That thus reliev'st thy foes in misery!

[_Exeunt_.

LIT. JOHN. Skelton, a word or two beside the play.

FRIAR. Now, Sir John Eltham, what is't you would say?

LIT. JOHN. Methinks, I see no jests of Robin Hood, No merry morrices of Friar Tuck, No pleasant skippings up and down the wood, No hunting-songs, no coursing of the buck. Pray God this play of ours may have good luck, And the king's majesty mislike it not.

FRIAR. And if he do, what can we do to that? I promis'd him a play of Robin Hood, His honourable life in merry Sherwood. His majesty himself survey'd the plot, And bad me boldly write it; it was good. For merry jests they have been shown before, As how the friar fell into the well For love of Jenny, that fair bonny belle; How Greenleaf robb'd the Shrieve of Nottingham, And other mirthful matter full of game.[230] Our play expresses noble Robert's wrong; His mild forgetting treacherous injury: The abbot's malice, rak'd in cinders long, Breaks out at last with Robin's tragedy. If these, that hear the history rehears'd, Condemn my play, when it begins to spring, I'll let it wither, while it is a bud, And never show the flower to the king.

LIT. JOHN. One thing beside: you fall into your vein Of ribble-rabble rhymes Skeltonical, So oft, and stand so long, that you offend.

FRIAR. It is a fault I hardly can amend. O, how I champ my tongue to talk these terms! I do forget ofttimes my friar's part; But pull me by the sleeve when I exceed, And you shall see me mend that fault indeed.

Wherefore, still sit you, Doth Skelton entreat you While he _facetè_ Will briefly repeat ye The history all And tale tragical, By whose treachery And base injury Robin the good, Call'd Robin Hood, Died in Sherwood. Which till you see, Be ruled by me: Sit patiently, And give a plaudite, If anything please ye.

[_Exeunt_.