SCENE II.

_An old fashioned Apartment, in BARTON'S House, in the Village. Rusty Arms, and other Military Paraphernalia hanging up, in different Parts; &c._

_LA VARENNE and BARTON._

_Barton._ Nay, sir, thank not me: I am no trader, I, in empty forms; In neat congees, and kickshaw compliments; In your,--"Dear sirs," and "Sir, you make me blush;"-- I'm for plain speaking; plain and blunt; besides, I've been a soldier:--and, I take it, sir, You, who are still in service, are aware That blushing seldom troubles the profession.

_La Var._ Still, friend, I thank thee.--Thou hast shelter'd me, At a hard trying moment, when the buffets Of tainting fortune rather would persuade Friends to shrink back, than serve me.

_Barton._ 'Faith, good sir, I know not how you have been buffetted:-- But this I know,--at least I think I know it-- If there's a soldier, in the world's wide army, Who will not, in the moment of distress, Stretch forth his hand to save a falling comrade, Why, then, I think, that he has little chance Of being found in Heaven's muster-roll.

_La Var._ I like thy plainness well.

_Barton._ Nay, sir, my plainness Is such as Nature gave me: and would men Leave Nature to herself, good faith, her work Is pretty equal;--but we will be garnishing; Until the heart, like to a beauty's face, Which she ne'er lets alone till she has spoil'd it, Is so befritter'd round, with worldly nonsense, That we can scarcely trace sweet Nature's outlines.

_La Var._ Who of our party, pr'ythee, since the battle Have shelter'd here among the villagers?-- Canst tell their names?

_Barton._ Ay, marry, can I, sir. But can and will are birds of diff'rent feather. Can is a swan, that bottles up its music, And never lets it out till death is near; But will's a piping bullfinch, that does ever Whistle forth every note it has been taught, To any fool that bids it. Now, sir, mark;-- Whoever's here, would fain be private here; Whoever's here, depend on't, tell I can;-- Whoever's here, depend on't, tell I will not.

_La Var._ Why, this is over-caution!--would not they Rejoice as readily at seeing me, As I at seeing them?

_Barton._ I know not that: I am no whisper-monger;--and if, once, A secret be entrusted to my charge, I keep it, as an honest agent should, Lock'd in my heart's old strong box; and I'll answer No draught from any but my principal.

_La Var._ If now thou hast a charge, old trusty, I, (Believe me), am next heir to't.

_Barton._ Very like. Yet, sir, if heirs had liberty to draw For what is not their own, till time shall give it them, I fear the stock would soon be dry;--and, then, The principals might have some cause to grumble.

_La Var._ Thou art the strangest fellow! What's thy name?

_Barton._ Barton;--that I may trust you with.

_La Var._ No more?

_Barton._ No, not a pin's point more. Pshaw! here comes one, To let all out. Children, and fools, and women, Will still be babbling.

_Enter PRINCE EDWARD._

_Prince._ Oh! my lord, is't you!

_La Var._ Oh, my young sir! how my heart springs to meet you! Where is your royal mother? is she safe?

_Prince._ She's in this house, my lord.--Last night, This honest man received us:--and another,-- His friend--not quite so honest as he might be-- Did bring us hither;--'twas a rogue, my lord;-- Yet no rogue neither;--and, to say the sooth, The rogue, my lord, 's a very honest man. Lord, how this meeting will rejoice my mother! And she was wishing, now, within this minute, To see the Seneschal of Normandy.

_Barton._ So! This is the Seneschal of Normandy! Here is another secret.--Plague take secrets! This is in token of their liking me;-- Just as an over hospitable host, Out of pure kindness to his visitor, Crams the poor bursting soul with meat he loaths.

_La Var._ I cannot blame thee, friend;--thou knew'st me not: And, thou hast, now, a jewel in thy care, Well worth thy utmost caution in preserving.

_Barton._ I need not to be told the value on't. I have been sworn his mother's subject, sir; and since My poor house has been honour'd with her presence, The tender scenes, I've been a witness to, 'Twixt her, and this young bud of royalty, Would make me traitor to humanity, Could I betray her. There is a rapturous something, That plays about an English subject's heart, When female majesty is seen employ'd In these sweet duties of domestic love, Which all can feel,--but very few describe!

_La Var._ Oh! how thou warm'st me, fellow, with thy zeal! Come, my young lord!--now lead us to her majesty. [_To BARTON._

_Barton._ Why, as things are, I'll lead you where she is:-- But were they otherwise, and you had not Discover'd where she is--you'll pardon me-- But I had led you, sir, a pretty dance Ere I had led you to her. Come, I'll conduct you. [_Exeunt._