And now, lovely Matilda, look round upon these sylvan shades where we have so often roused the stag from his ferny covert.

The rising sun smiles upon us through the stems of that beechen knoll.

Shall I take your hand, Matilda, in the presence of this my court?
Shall I crown you with our wild-wood coronal, and hail you queen of the forest?
Will you be the queen Matilda of your own true king Robin ?" Matilda smiled assent.
"Not Matilda," said the friar: "the rules of our holy alliance require new birth.

We have excepted in favour of Little John, because he is great John, and his name is a misnomer.

I sprinkle, not thy forehead with water, but thy lips with wine, and baptize thee MARIAN." "Here is a pretty conspiracy," exclaimed the baron.