Volume I Part 125 (1/2)

_Lam._ Lights there, a Plot, a Popish Plot, Lights!

_L. Lam._ The Crown, the Crown, guard the Crown!

[She groping about, finds _Lov._ by his Clothes, knows him.

--Here, take this Key, the next room is my Bed-chamber, Secure yourself a moment.-- [Ex. _Loveless_.

Lights there, the Crown-- who art thou?

[Takes hold of _Lam._

_Lam._ 'Tis I.

_L. Lam._ Ah, my Lord, what's the matter?--

_Lam._ Nay, my Lady, I ask you what's the matter?

Enter _Page_ with Lights.

By Heaven, all is not well; hark ye, my fine she Politician, who was it you had hid beneath this Carpet?

_L. Lam._ Heav'ns! dost hear him, _Gilliflower_? Sure the Fellow's mad.

_Gill._ Alack, my Lord, are you out of your honourable Wits? Heav'n knows, my Lady was at her Devotion.

_Lam._ Baud, come, confess thy self to be one. At her Devotion! yes, with a He Saint.

_Gill._ Ah! Gad forbid the Saints should be so wicked.

_L. Lam._ Hark ye, thou little sniveling Hypocrite, who hast no Virtue but a little Conduct in Martial Discipline; who hast by Perjuries, Cheats, and pious Villanies, wound thy self up into the Rabble's Favour, where thou mayst stand till some more great in Roguery remove thee from that height, or to the Gallows, if the King return: hast thou the Impudence to charge my Virtue?

_Lam._ I know not, Madam, whether that Virtue you boast were lost, or only stak't, and ready for the Gamester; but I am sure a Man was hid under this Carpet.

_L. Lam._ Oh Heav'ns, a Man!

_Gill._ Lord, a Man! Are you sure 'twas a Man, my Lord?-- Some villanous Malignant, I'll warrant.

_Lam._ It may be so.

_Gill._ Alack, the Wickedness of these Heroicks to hide under Carpets; why they'l have the impudence to hide under our Petticoats shortly, if your Highness take 'em not down.

[To Lady _Lam._

_Lam._ I do believe so; Death-- a Cuckold? shall that black Cloud shade all my rising Fame?

_L. Lam._ Cuckold! Why, is that Name so great a Stranger to ye, Or has your rising Fame made ye forget How long that Cloud has hung upon your Brow?

--'Twas once the height of your Ambition, Sir; When you were a poor-sneaking Slave to _Cromwell_, Then you cou'd cringe, and sneer, and hold the Door, And give him every Opportunity, Had not my Piety defeated your Endeavours.

_Lam._ That was for Glory, Who wou'd not be a Cuckold to be great?

--If _Cromwell_ leap'd into my Saddle once, I'll step into his Throne for't: but, to be pointed at By Rascals that I-- rule-- 'tis insupportable.

_L. Lam._ How got this Fellow drunk? call up my Officers!