We have here a wonder.
The face is Margaret's face.
_Sir W_.

The face is Margaret's, but the dress the same My Stephen sometime wore.

[_To_ Margaret.
Suppose us them; whom do men say we are?
Or know you what you seek?
_Marg_.

A worthy pair of exiles, Two whom the politics of state revenge, In final issue of long civil broils, Have houseless driven from your native France, To wander idle in these English woods, Where now ye live; most part Thinking on home and all the joys of France, Where grows the purple vine.
_Sir W_.

These woods, young stranger, And grassy pastures, which the slim deer loves, Are they less beauteous than the land of France, Where grows the purple vine?
_Marg_.