Gill. Lord, a Man! Are you sure ’twas a Man, my Lord?—Some villanous Malignant, I’ll warrant.
Lam. It may be so.
Gill. Alack, the Wickedness of these Heroicks to hide under Carpets; why they’l have the impudence to hide under our Petticoats shortly, if your Highness take ’em not down. [To Lady Lam.
Lam. I do believe so; Death—a Cuckold? shall that black Cloud shade all my rising Fame?
L. Lam. Cuckold! Why, is that Name so great a Stranger to ye,
Or has your rising Fame made ye forget
How long that Cloud has hung upon your Brow?
—’Twas once the height of your Ambition, Sir;
When you were a poor-sneaking Slave to Cromwell,
Then you cou’d cringe, and sneer, and hold the Door,