imitate the Gods, and spoil our Joys.

_L. Lam._ Lovely, and unambitious!
What hopes have I of all your promis'd Constancy,
Whilst this which possibly e'er long may adorn my Brow,
And ought to raise me higher in your Love,
Ought to transform you even to Adoration,
Shall poorly make you vanish from its Lustre?
Methinks the very Fancy of a Queen
Is worth a thousand Mistresses of less illustrious Rank.

_Lov._ What, every pageant Queen? you might from thence infer
I'd fall in love with every little Actress, because
She acts the Queen for half an hour,
But then the gaudy Robe is laid aside.

_L. Lam._ I'll pardon the Comparison in you.

_Lov._ I do not doubt your Power of being a Queen,
But trust, it will not last.
How truly brave would your great Husband be,
If, whilst he may, he paid this mighty Debt
To the right Owner!
If, whilst he has the Army in his Power,
He made a true and lawful use of it,
To settle our great Master in his Throne;
And by an Act so glorious raise his Name
Even above the Title of a King.

_L. Lam._ You love me not, that would persuade me from My Glory.

Enter _Gilliflower_.

_Gill._ Oh, Madam, the Lords are all got merry, as they call it, and are
all dancing hither.

_L. Lam._ What, at their _Oliverian_ Frolicks?-- Dear _Loveless_,
withdraw, I wou'd not give the fond believing Fool a Jealousy of me.

_Gill._ Withdraw, Madam? 'tis impossible, he must run just into their
Mouths.

_L. Lam._ I'm ill at these Intrigues, being us'd to Lovers that still
came with such Authority, that modestly my Husband wou'd withdraw-- but
Loveless is in danger, therefore take care he be not seen.

_Gill._ Heav'ns! they are coming, there's no Retreat--

_L. Lam._ Lie down on the Couch-- and cover him you with the
Foot-Carpet-- So, give me my Prayer-Book.

[He lies down along on the Couch, they cover him with the Carpet:
L. _Lam._ takes her Book, sits down on his Feet, and leans on the
Back of the Couch reading; _Gill._ stands at t'other end, they
enter dancing as before.

--What Insolence is this? do you not hear me, you-- Sots-- whom Gaiety
and Dancing do so ill become.

_War._ [Singing.] Welcome, _Joan Sanderson_, welcome, welcome.
[Goes to take her out, she strikes him.
Wons, Madam, that's no part o' th' Dance.

_L. Lam._ No, but 'tis part of a reward for your Insolence, Which
possibly your Head shall answer for--

_Lam._ Par