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.
Crom. Fond Girl, because he has the Art of fawning,
Dissembling to the height, can sooth and smile,
Profess, and sometimes weep:—
No, he’ll betray him, as he did thy Brother;