Marian.         [To Them.

     Your Hunt holds in his Tale still; and tells more!
    Mar. My Hunt? What Tale?
    Rob. How! cloudy, Marian!
What look is this?     Mar. A fit one, Sir, for you.
Hand off, rude Ranger! Sirrah, get you in              [To Scathlock.

And bear the Venison hence: It is too good
For those course Rustick Mouthes, that cannot open,
Or spend a thank for't. A starv'd Muttons Carkass
Would better fit their Palates. See it carried
To Mother Maudlins, whom you call the Witch, Sir.
Tell her I sent it to make merry with,
She'll turn us thanks at least! why stand'st thou, Groom?
    Rob. I wonder he can move! that he's not fix'd!
If that his feeling be the same with mine!
I dare not trust the faith of mine own Senses.
I fear mine Eyes and Ears: this is not Marian!
Nor am I Robin-hood! I pray you ask her!
Ask her, good Shep'erds! ask her all for me;
Or rather ask your selves, if she be she;
Or I be I.     Mar. Yes, and you are the Spy:
And the spi'd Spy, that watch upon ,y Walks,
To inform what Deer I kill, or give away!
Where! when! to whom! But spy your worst, good
         Spy!
I will dispose of this where least you like!
Fall to your Cheese-Cakes, Curds, and clawted Cream,
Your Fools, your Flaunes; and of Ale a stream
To wash it from your Livers: strain Ewes Milk
Into your Cyder Sillabubs, and be drunk
To him, whose Fleece hath brought the earliest Lamb
This year; and wears the Baudrick at your Bord!
Where you may all go whistle; and record
This i'your Dance: and foot it lustily.
                 [She leaves them.
    Rob. I pray you, Friends, do you hear? and see, as
     I do?
Did the same Accents strike your Ears? And objects?
Your Eyes, as mine?
    Alk. We taste the same Reproaches!
    Lio. Have seen the Changes!
    Rob. Are we not all chang'd,
Transformed from our selves?     Lio. I do not know!
The best is silence!     Alk. And to await the issue.
    Rob. The dead, lazy wait for't: I will find it.