A thing just like a Woman Friend;
It walkt and lookt with wondrous Majesty,
Had Eyes that kill’d, and Graces deck’d her Face;
But when she talk’d, mad as the Winds she grew,
Chimera in the form of Angel, Woman!
Free. Who the Devil meanest thou?
Lov. By Heav’n I know not, but, as she vanish’d hence, she bad me come to the General’s.
Free. Why, this is she I told thee ey’d thee so at the Conventicle; ’tis Lambert, the renown’d, the famous Lady Lambert—Mad call’st thou her? ’tis her ill acted Greatness, thou mistak’st; thou art not us’d to the Pageantry of these Women yet: they all run thus mad; ’tis Greatness in ’em, Loveless.
Lov. And is thine thus, thy Lady Desbro?
Free. She’s of another Cut, she married, as most do, for Interest—but what—thou’t to her?