a man's saying.

_Will._ Thou wouldst not have it said by anything
but a man. Thou wilt not forget?

_Barb._ There, yes! no! anything!

[_Tries to get away. WILLIAM gives BARBARA a kiss._]

_Barb._ Oh, dear, I must go. [_Exit R._]

_Arth._ She's gone!

_Will._ They are, sir!

_Arth._ What _they_--

_Will._ Mistress Florence and Barbara, sir!

_Arth._ Why stand here prating, then?
Go follow; see no harm comes, quick, the road
Is dangerous. I'll wait here. Leave them not
Before they are safe in. [_Exit WILLIAM, R._]
For thy sake, Florence,
I will believe perfection's in thy sex.
How much I might have said. Yes! I have been
Imagination's wildest fool to deck
With qualities that did beseem them not
All the worst half of women. Thus we stoop
To pick up hectic apples from the ground,
Pierc'd by the canker or the unseen worm,
And tasting deem none other grow but they,
Whilst on the topmost branches of life's tree
Hangs fruitage worthy of the virgin choir
Of bright Hesperides. Soft! Who comes here?
Surely my rascal is not yet return'd--
The times are full of plotting. I will hide--

[_Stands aside. Voices heard._]

[_Enter four POACHERS, one carrying a fawn._]

_1st Poach._ I tell thee that I heard 'em bay.

_2nd Poach._ And I too! Curse me, but I thought
his fangs did meet in the calf of my leg.

[_Enter POACHERS, L.U.E._]

_3rd Poach._ 'Tis like it was the tooth of a dog-bramble.

_2nd Poach._ Well, well; it is the nature of man
to hunt forbidden deer.

_Arth._ [Aside] And to carve his name on benches.

_2nd Poach._ And while game be preserved, there
will be the likes of we.

_3rd Poach._ Right too. But it is a mortal sin to
make us men into dog's-meat, and to hunt us with
foreign bloodhound varmint. Hast heard, friend
Gregory, who stole my apples?

_4th Poach._ Not I!

_3rd Poach._ Would I could catch the thieving
rascals! Look ye, the tree is mine, and it does but hang
over the road a scantling; and, as sure as nights are
dark, comes me some ragged pilferers, that have not to
pay an honest drunkenness, and basely steal my apples.

_Arth._ [Aside] Oh, most benighted conscience of
the villains!

_4th Poach._ Shall I lend thee my bull-bitch to watch
thy tree? She hath a real gripe for a rascally thin
leg. Your orphan, your cast-away, hath no chance
with her, I warrant. A rare bitch!

_Arth._ [_Aside_] O gentle sophist! what a line is here;
Lions