L. Lam. Bid the poor Creature wait without, I’ll do her what Good I can for her Husband’s sake, who first infus’d Politicks into me, by which I may boast I have climb’d to Empire. Lov. So, her Madness runs in that Vein I see. [Aside. Gil. Alack, Madam, I think she’s coming. Crom. [without] Does she keep State in the Devil’s Name, and must I wait? 364 L. Lam. Heavens! I shall be scandalized by the Godly. Dear _Gilliflower_, conceal my Cavalier; I would not have a Cavalier seen with me for all the World—Step into my Cabinet. [Ex. _Gil._ and _Lov._ Enter L. _Cromwel_, held back by a Man—to them _Gilliflower_. Crom. Unhand me, Villain—’twas not long since a Rudeness, Sir, like this had forfeited thy Head. L. Lam. What wou’d the Woman? Crom. The Knave, the perjur’d Villain thy Husband, by th’ Throat: thou proud, imperious Baggage, to make me wait; whose Train thou hast been proud to bear—how durst thou, after an Affront like this, trust thy false Face within my Fingers reach? that Face, that first bewitch’d the best of Husbands from me, and tempted him to sin. Gil. I beseech your Highness retire, the Woman’s mad. Crom. Highness in the Devil’s Name, sure ’tis not come to that; no, I may live to see thy Cuckold hang’d first, his Politicks are yet too shallow, Mistress. Heavens! Did my Husband make him Lord for this? raise him to Honour, Trusts, Commands, and Counsels, To ruin all our Royal Family, Betray young _Richard_, who had reign’d in Peace But for his Perjuries and Knaveries; And now he sooths my Son-in-law, soft _Fleetwood_, With empty hopes of Pow’r, and all the while To make himself a King: No, Minion, no; I yet may live to see Thy Husband’s Head o’th’ top of _Westminster_, Before I see it circled in a Crown. L. Lam. I pity the poor Creature. Crom. Ungrateful Traytor as he is, Not to look back upon his Benefactors; But he, in lieu of making just Returns, Reviles our Family, profanes our Name, 365 And will in time render it far more odious Than ever _Needham_ made the great Heroicks. L. Lam. Alas, it weeps, poor Woman! Crom. Thou ly’st, false Strumpet, I scorn to shed a Tear, For ought that thou canst do or say to me; I’ve too much of my Husband’s Spirit in me. Oh, my dear _Richard_, hadst thou had a Grain on’t, Thou and thy Mother ne’er had fall’n to this. Gil. His Father sure was seeking of the Lard when he was got. Enter L. _Fleetwood_, her Train born up. Crom. Where is this perjur’d Slave, thy Wittal Lord? Dares he not shew his Face, his guilty Face, Before the Person he has thus betray’d? L. Fleet. Madam, I hope you mistake my honour’d Lord _Lambert_, I believe he designs the Throne for my dear Lord.