Scene Seventh. The Forest near Sir Raphs House

Enter Sir Raph Smith, his Lady, and Will [and Attendants].

S. Raph. Come on, my harts: i faith, it is ill lucke,
To hunt all day, and not kill any thing.
What sayest thou, lady? art thou weary yet?

La. I must not say so, sir.

Sir Ra. Although thou art.

Wil. And can you blame her, to be foorth so long,
And see no better sport?

Ra. Good faith, twas very hard.

La. No, twas not ill,
Because, you know, it is not good to kill.

Ra. Yes, venson, ladie.

La. No, indeed, nor them;
Life is as deere in deare as tis in men.

Ra. But they are kild for sport.

Lad. But thats bad play,
When they are made to sport their lives away.

Ra. Tis fine to see them runne.

La. What, out of breath?
They runne but ille that runne themselves to death.

Ra. They might make, then, lesse hast, and keep their winde.

La. Why, then, they see the hounds brings death behinde.

Rap. Then, twere as good for them at first to stay,
As to run long, and run their lives away.

La. I, but the stoutest of you all thats here
Would run from death and nimbly scud for feare.
Now, by my troth, I pittie those poor elfes.

Ra. Well, they have made us but bad sport to day.

La. Yes, twas my sport to see them scape away.

Will. I wish that I had beene at one bucks fall.

La. Out, thou wood-tyrant! thou art worst of all.

Wil. A woodman, ladie, but no tyrant I.

La. Yes, tyrant-like thou lovest to see lives dye.

Ra. Lady, no more: I do not like this lucke,
To hunt all day, and yet not kill a buck.
Well, it is late; but yet I sweare I will
Stay heere all night but I a buck will kill.

La. All night! nay, good sir Raph Smith, do not so.

Ra. Content ye, ladie.—Will, go fetch my bow:
A berrie of faire roes I saw to day
Downe by the groves, and there Ile take my stand,
And shoote at one; God send a luckie hand!

La. Will ye not, then, sir Raph, go home with me?

Ra. No, but my men shall beare thee company.—
Sirs, man her home.—Will, bid the huntsmen couple,
And bid them well reward their hounds to night.—
Ladie, farewell.—Will, hast ye with the bow;
Ile stay for thee heere by the grove below.

Wil. I will; but twill be darke, I shall not see:
How shall I see ye, then?

Ra. Why, hollo to me, and I wil answer thee.

Wil. Enough, I wil.

Raph. Farewell.

Exit.

La. How willingly doost thou consent to go
To fetch thy maister that same killing bow!

Wil. Guiltie of death I willing am in this,
Because twas our ill haps to day to misse:
To hunt, and not to kill, is hunters sorrow.
Come, ladie, weell have venson ere to morrow.

Exeunt.