and reads 'em.

_Crom._ Hah, bless my Eye-sight, she looks pale,-- now red again; some
turn to his Confusion, Heav'n, I beseech thee.

_L. Lam._ My Lord's undone! his Army has deserted him;
Left him defenceless to the Enemies Pow'r.
Ah, Coward Traytors! Where's that brutal Courage,
That made you so successful in your Villanies?
Has Hell, that taught you Valour, now abandon'd ye?
--How in an instant are my Glories fall'n!

_Crom._ Ha, ha, ha-- What, has your Highness any Cause of Grief?

_Gill._ Call up your Courage, Madam, do not let these things scoff
you-- you may be yet a Queen: Remember what _Lilly_ told you, Madam.

_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._

_Hew._ So, Brethren in Iniquity, we have spun a fine Thred, the Rump's
all in all now, rules the Roast, and has sent for the General with
Scissers and Rasor.

_Whit._ With a Sisseraro, you mean.

_Hew._ None of your Terms in Law, good Brother.

_War._ Right; but gen ya have any Querks in Law, Mr. Lyar, that will
save our Crags, 'twill be warth a Fee.

_Duc._ We have plaid our Cards fair.

_War._ I's deny that; Wans, Sirs, ya plaid 'em faul; a Fule had the
shooftling of'em, and the Muckle Diel himself turn up Trump.

_Whit._ We are lost, Gentlemen, utterly lost; who the Devil wou'd have
thought of a Dissolution?

_Hews._ Is there no Remedy?

_Duc._ Death, I'll to the _Scotch_ General; turn but in time as many
greater Rogues than I have done, and 'twill save my Stake yet-- Farewel,
Gentlemen.

_Des._ No Remedy?

_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 Vic