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!