yesterday? How can it be! I cannot be in two places at once.

Sir John. Poor wretch! She's stark mad! Lady. What, in the devil's name, was I here before I came? Let me look in the glass. Oh Heavens! I am astonished! I don't know myself! If this be I that the glass shews me, I never saw myself before.

Sir John. What incoherent madness is this!

Enter JOBSON.

Lady. There, that's the devil in my likeness, who has robbed me of my countenance. Is he here, too?

Job. Ay, hussy; and here's my strap, you quean.

Nell. O dear! I'm afraid my husband will beat me, that am on t'other side the room, there.

Job. I hope your honours will pardon her; she was drinking with a conjurer last night, and has been mad ever since, and calls herself my lady Loverule.

Sir John. Poor woman! take care of her; do not hurt her, she may be cured of this.

Job. Yes, and please your worship, you shall see me cure her presently. Hussy, do you see this?

Nell. O pray, Zekel, don't beat me. Sir John. What says my love? Does she infect thee with madness, too?

Nell. I am not well; pray lead me in.

[Exeunt NELL and Maid. Job. I beseech your worship don't take it ill of me; she shall never trouble you more.

Sir John. Take her home, and use her kindly.
Lady. What will become of me?

[Exeunt JOBSON and Lady.
Enter Footman.

Foot. Sir, the doctor, who called here last night, desires you will give him leave to speak a word or two with you upon very earnest busi

ness.

Sir John. What can this mean? Bring him in.

Enter Doctor.

Doc. Lo! on my knees, sir, I beg forgiveness for what I have done, and put my life into your hands,

Sir John. What mean you?

Sir John. Oh, wretch! thou hast undone me! I am fallen from the height of all my hopes, and must still be cursed with a tempestuous wife; a fury whom I never knew quiet since I had her. Doc. If that be all, I can continue the charm for both their lives.

Sir John. Let the event be what it will, I'll hang you if you do not end the charm this in

stant.

Doc. I will this minute, sir; and, perhaps, you'll find it the luckiest of your life; I can assure you, your lady will prove the better for it. Sir John. Hold; there's one material circunstance I'd know.

Doc. Your pleasure, sir?

Sir John. Perhaps the cobler has--you understand me?

Doc. I do assure you, no; for ere she was conveyed to his bed, the cobler was got up to work, and he has done nought but beat her ever since. And you are like to reap the fruits of his labour. He'll be with you in a minute; here he comes.

Enter JOBSON.

Sir John. So, Jobson, where's your wife?

Job. And please your worship, she's here at the door, but, indeed, I thought I had lost her just now, for as she came into the hall, she fell into such a swoon, that I though she would never come out on't again; but a tweak or two by the nose, and half a dozen straps, did the business at last. Here, where are you, housewife? Enter Lady.

But. [Holds up the candle, but lets it fall when he sees her.]-O heaven and earth! Is this my_lady?

Job. What does he say? My wife changed to my lady?

Cook. Ay; I thought the other was too good for our lady.

Lady. [To SIR JOHN.]-Sir, you are the person I have most offended, and here I confess I have been the worst of wives in every thing, but that I always kept myself chaste. If you can vouchsafe once more to take me to your bosom, the remainder of my days shall joyfully be spent in duty, and observance of your will.

Sir John. Rise, madam; I do forgive you; and if you are sincere in what you say, you'll make me happier than all the enjoyments in the

Doc. I have exercised my magic art upon your lady; I know you have too much honour to take away my life, since I might have still con-world, without you, could do. cealed it, had I pleased.

Sir John. You have now brought me to a glimpse of misery too great to bear. Is all my happiness then turned into a vision only.

Doc. Sir, I beg you, fear not; if any harm comes of it, I freely give you leave to hang me. Sir John. Inform me what you have done.

Doc. I have transformed your lady's face so, that she seems the cobler's wife, and have charmed her face into the likeness of my lady's; and last night, when the storm arose, my spirits conveyed them to each other's bed.

Job. What a pox! Am I to lose my wife thus?

Enter Lucy and LETTICE.

Lucy. Oh, sir! the strangest accident has happened! it has amazed us; my lady was in so great a swoon, we thought she had been dead.

Let. And when she came to herself, she proved another woman.

Job. Ha, ha, ha! A bull, a bull!

Lucy. She is so changed, I knew her not; I never saw her face before: O lud! Is this my lady?

Let. We shall be mauled again.

dream, that I am quite weary of it.[To JOBSON.] Lucy. I thought our happiness was too great-Forsooth, madam, will you please to take to last. your clothes, and let me have mine again ? [TO LADY LOVERULE, Job. Hold your tongue, you fool; they'll serve you to go to church. [Aside. Lady. No, thou shalt keep them, and I'll preserve thine as reliques.

Lady. Fear not, my servants. It shall hereafter be my endeavour to make you happy. Sir John. Persevere in this resolution, and we shall be blest indeed for life.

Enter NELL.

Nell. My head turns round! I must go home. O Zekel! Are you there?

Job. O lud! Is that fine lady my wife? Egad, I'm afraid to come near her. What can be the meaning of this?

Sir John. This is a happy change, and I'll have it celebrated with all the joy I proclaimed for my late short-lived vision.

Job. And can your ladyship forgive my strapping your honour so very much?

Lady. Most freely. The joy of this blessed change sets all things right again.

Sir John. Let us forget every thing that is past, and think of nothing now but joy and pleasure.

Lady. To me, 'tis the happiest day I ever Lady. knew.

Sir John. Here, Jobson, take thy fine wife. Job. But one word, sir. Did not your worship make a buck of me, under the rose?

AIR.-Hey boys, up we go!

Let every face with smiles appear,
Be joy in every breast;
Since from a life of pain and care,
We now are truly blest.

Sir John. May no remembrance of past time
Our present pleasures soil;

Sir John. No, upon my honour, nor ever kissed her lips till I came from hunting; but since she has been a means of bringing about this happy change, I'll give thee five hundred pounds Job. home with her; go, buy a stock of leather.

Job. Brave boys! I'm a prince, the prince of coblers. Come hither and kiss me, Nell; I'll never strap thee more.

Nell. Indeed, Zekel, I have been in such a

Be nought but mirth and joy our crime,
And sporting all our toil.

I hope you'll give me leave to speak,
If I may be so bold;

There's nought but the devil, and this
good strap,

Could ever tame a scold. [Exeunt,

SCENE I.-Sherwood Forest.

ACT I.

Enter several Courtiers, as lost. 1st Cour. 'Tis horrid dark! and this wood, believe, has neither end nor side.

4th Cour. You mean to get out at, for we have found one in, you see.

2d Cour. I wish our good King Harry had kept nearer home to hunt; in my mind the pretty tame deer in London make much better sport than the wild ones in Sherwood forest.

3d Cour. I can't tell which way his majesty went, nor whether any body is with him or not; but let us keep together, pray.

at all so. Why we are all of us lost in the dark every day of our lives. Knaves keep us in the dark by their cunning, and fools by their ignoIrance. Divines lose us in dark mysteries; lawyers in dark cases; and statesmen in dark intrigues. Nay, the light of reason, which we so much boast of, what is it but a dark lanthorn, which just serves to prevent us from running our nose against a post, perhaps; but is no more able to lead us out of the dark mists of error and ignorance, in which we are lost, than an ignus fatuus would be to conduct us out of this wood.

1st Cour. But, my lord, this is no time for 4th Cour. Ay, ay, like true courtiers, take preaching, methinks. And, for all your morals, care of ourselves, whatever becomes of our ma-daylight would be much preferable to this darkness, I believe.

ster.

2d Cour. Well, it's a terrible thing to be lost in the dark.

4th Cour. It is. And yet it's so common a case, that one would not think it should be.

3d Cour. Indeed would it. But come, let us go on; we shall find some house or other by and by. [Exeunt.

4th Cour. Come along.

Enter the King.

account of himself than you have done, I promise you.

King. I must submit to my own authority. [Aside.] Very well, sir, I am glad to hear the king has so good an officer; and since I find you have his authority, I will give you a better account of myself, if you will do me the favour to hear it.

King. No, no; this can be no public road, that's certain: I am lost, quite lost indeed. Of what advantage is it now to be a king? Night shews me no respect: I cannot see better, nor walk so well as another man. What is a king? Is he not wiser than another man? Not without his counsellors, I plainly find. Is he not Mill. It's more than you deserve, I bemore powerful? I oft have been told so, in-lieve; but, let's hear what you can say for deed; but what now can my power command? yourself. Is he not, greater, and more magnificent? When seated on his throne, and surrounded with nobles and flatterers, perhaps he may think so; but when lost in a wood, alas! what is he but a common man? His wisdom knows not which is north, and which is south; his power a beggar's dog would bark at; and his greatness the beggar would not bow to. And yet, how oft are we puffed up with these false attributes? Well, in losing the monarch, I have found the man.

[The report of a gun is heard. Hark! some villain sure is near! What were it best to do? Will my majesty protect me? No. Throw majesty aside, then, and let manhood do it.

Enter the Miller.

Mil. I believe, I hear the rogue. there?

King. No rogue, I assure you.

Mil. Little better, friend, I believe. fired that gun?

King, Not I, indeed.

Mil. You lie, I believe.

King. I have the honour to belong to the king, as well as you; and, perhaps, should be as unwilling to see any wrong done him. I came down with him to hunt in this forest, and, the chase leading us to-day a great way from home, I am benighted in this wood, and have lost my way.

Mil. This does not sound well; if you have been a hunting, pray, where is your horse?

King. I have tired my horse, so that he lay down under me, and I was obliged to leave him.

Mil. If I thought I might believe this now.―
King. I am not used to lic, honest man.
Mil. What! do you live at court, and not
lie? that's a likely story, indeed!

King. Be that as it will, I speak truth now, I assure you; and, to convince you of it, if Who's you will attend me to Nottingham, if I am near it, or give me a night's lodging in your own house; here is something to pay you for your trouble, and if that is not sufficient, I will satisfy you in the morning to your utmost desire.

Who

King. Lie! lie! how strange it seems to me, to be talked to in this style. [Aside.] Upon my word, I don't.

Mil. Come, come, sirrah, confess; you have shot one of the king's deer, have not you?

King. No, indeed; I owe the king more respect. I heard a gun go off, indeed, and was afraid some robbers might have been near.

Mil. I'm not bound to believe this friend.
Pray who are you? what's your name?
King. Name!

Mil. Name! yes, name. Why you have a name, have not you? Where do you come from? What is your business here?

King. These are questions I have not been used to, honest man.

Mil. May be so; but they are questions no honest man would be afraid to answer, I think. So, if you can give me no better account of yourself, I shall make bold to take you along with me, if you please.

King. With you! what authority have you

to

Mil. The king's authority, if I must give you an account, sir. I am John Cockle, the miller of Mansfield, one of his majesty's keepers in this forest of Sherwood; and I will let no suspected fellow pass this way, that cannot give a better

Mil. Ay, now, I am convinced, you are a courtier; here is a little bribe for to-day, and a large promise for to-morrow, both in a breath; here, take it again, and take this along with it.John Cockle is no courtier; he can do what he ought without a bribe.

King. Thou art a very extraordinary man, I must own, and I should be glad, methinks, to be farther acquainted with thee.

Mil. Thee! and thou! prithee don't thee and thou me: I believe I am as good a man as yourself at least.

King. Sir, I beg your pardon.

Mil. Nay, I am not angry, friend; only, I don't love to be too familiar with any body, before I know whether they deserve it or

not.

King. You are in the right. But what am I to do?

Mil. You may do what you please. You are twelve miles from Nottingham, and all the way through this thick wood; but, if you are resolved upon going thither to-night, I will put you in the road, and direct you, the best I can; or, if you will accept of such poor entertainment as a miller can give, you shall be welcome to stay all night, and, in the morning, I will go with you myself.

King. And cannot you go with me to-night?

Mil. I would not go with you to-night, if you | See who's there. O heavens! 'tis he! Alas! were the king. that ever I should be ashamed to see the man I love!