416 Gill. Call up your Courage, Madam, do not let these things scoff you—you may be yet a Queen: Remember what _Lilly_ told you, Madam. L. Lam. Damn _Lilly_, who with lying Prophecies has rais’d me to the hopes of Majesty: a Legion of his Devils take him for’t. Crom. Oh, have a care of Cursing, Madam. L. Lam. Screech-Owl, away, thy Voice is ominous. Oh I cou’d rave! but that it is not great; —And silent Sorrow—has most Majesty. Enter _Wariston_, huffing. War. Wons, Madam, undone, undone; our honourable Committee is gone to th’ Diel, and the damn’d loosey Rump is aud in aud; the muckle Diel set it i’solt, and his Dam drink most for’t. Crom. The Committee dissolv’d! whose wise work was that? it looks like _Fleetwood’s_ silly Politicks. War. Marry, and yar Ladiship’s i’th’ right,’twas en the Work o’th’ faud Loone, the Diel brest his Wem for’t. Enter _Hewson_, _Desbro_, _Whitlock_, _Duc._ and _Cob._ Hew. So, Brethren in Iniquity, we have spun a fine Thred, the Rump’s all in all now, rules the Roast, and has sent for the General with Scissers and Rasor. Whit. With a Sisseraro, you mean. Hew. None of your Terms in Law, good Brother. War. Right; but gen ya have any Querks in Law, Mr. Lyar, that will save our Crags, ’twill be warth a Fee. Duc. We have plaid our Cards fair. War. I’s deny that; Wans, Sirs, ya plaid ’em faul; a Fule had the shooftling of’em, and the Muckle Diel himself turn up Trump. Whit. We are lost, Gentlemen, utterly lost; who the Devil wou’d have thought of a Dissolution? Hews. Is there no Remedy? Duc. Death, I’ll to the _Scotch_ General; turn but in time 417 as many greater Rogues than I have done, and ’twill save my Stake yet—Farewel, Gentlemen. Des. No Remedy? War. Nene, Sirs, again the King’s Evil; Bread, Sirs, ya’s ene gan tol yar Stall agen: I’s en follow _Duckenfield_—Farewel, Mr. Leyer. L. Lam. See the Vicissitudes of human Glory. These Rascals, that but yesterday petition’d me With humble Adoration, now scarce pay Common Civilities due to my Sex alone. Enter _Fleetwood_. Crom. How now, Fool, what is’t that makes ye look so pertly? Some mighty Business you have done, I’ll warrant. Fleet. Verily, Lady Mother, you are the strangest Body; a Man cannot please you—Have I not finely circumvented _Lambert?_ made the Rump Head, who have committed him to the _Tower_; ne’er stir now that I have, and I’m the greatest Man in _England_, as I live I am, as a Man may say. Crom. Yes, till a greater come. Ah, Fool of Fools, not to fore-see the danger of that nasty Rump. L. Fleet. Good Madam, treat my Lord with more Respect. Crom. Away, fond Fool, born with so little Sense, To doat on such a wretched Idiot; It was thy Fate in _Ireton’s_ days to love him, Or you were foully scandalized. Fleet. You are not so well spoken of neither, ne’er stir now, and you go to that. I can be King to morrow if I will.