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.