War. Nene, Sirs, again the King’s Evil; Bread, Sirs, [ya’s ene] gan tol yar Stall agen: I’s en follow Duckenfield—Farewel, [Mr. Leyer].
L. Lam. See the Vicissitudes of human Glory.
These Rascals, that but yesterday petition’d me
With humble Adoration, now scarce pay
Common Civilities due to my Sex alone.
Enter Fleetwood.
Crom. How now, Fool, what is’t that [makes ye look] so pertly? Some mighty Business you have done, I’ll warrant.
Fleet. Verily, Lady Mother, you are the strangest Body; a Man cannot please you—Have I not finely circumvented Lambert? made the Rump Head, who have committed him to the Tower; ne’er stir now that I have, and I’m the greatest Man in England, as I live I am, as a Man may say.
Crom. Yes, till a greater come. Ah, Fool of Fools, not to fore-see the danger of that nasty Rump.
L. Fleet. Good Madam, treat my Lord with more Respect.