I cannot tell.
To an indifferent eye both show alike.
'Tis not the scene, But all familiar objects in the scene, Which now ye miss, that constitute a difference.
Ye had a country, exiles, ye have none now; Friends had ye, and much wealth, ye now have nothing; Our manners, laws, our customs, all are foreign to you, I know ye loathe them, cannot learn them readily; And there is reason, exiles, ye should love Our English earth less than your land of France, Where grows the purple vine; where all delights grow Old custom has made pleasant.
_Sir W_.

You, that are read So deeply in our story, what are you?
_Marg_.

A bare adventurer; in brief a woman, That put strange garments on, and came thus far To seek an ancient friend: And having spent her stock of idle words, And feeling some tears coming, Hastes now to clasp Sir Walter Woodvil's knees, And beg a boon for Margaret; his poor ward.
[_Kneeling_.
_Sir W_.

Not at my feet, Margaret; not at my feet.
_Marg_.

Yes, till her suit is answered.
_Sir W_.