And is it you indeed, ye scapegraces? Ye are well disguised:
I knew ye not, by my flask. Robin, jolly Robin, he buys
a jest dearly that pays for it with a bloody coxcomb.
But here is balm for all bruises, outward and inward.
(The friar produced a flask of canary.) Wash thy wound twice
and thy throat thrice with this solar concoction, and thou shalt
marvel where was thy hurt. But what moved ye to this frolic?
Knew ye not that ye could not appear in a mask more fashioned
to move my bile than in that of these gilders and lackerers of
the smooth surface of worthlessness, that bring the gold of true
valour into disrepute, by stamping the baser metal with the fairer
im-pression? I marvelled to find any such given to fighting
(for they have an old instinct of self-preservation): but I
rejoiced thereat, that I might discuss to them poetical justice:
and therefore have I cracked thy sconce: for which, let this
be thy medicine."
"But wherefore," said Marian, "do we find you here, when we left
you joint lord warden of Sherwood?"
"I do but retire to my devotions," replied the friar.
"This is my hermitage, in which I first took refuge when I
escaped from my beloved brethren of Rubygill; and to which I
still retreat at times from the vanities of the world,
which else might cling to me too closely, since I have been
promoted to be peer-spiritual of your forest-court.
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