A great Chamber of State, and Canopy in Lambert’s House.
And at a Table, seated Lambert, Fleetwood, Desbro, Hewson,
Duckenfield, Wariston, Cobbet; all half drunk, with Bottles
and Glasses on the Table; L. Lam. and L. Fleet.
Lam. My Lord Wariston, you are not merry to night.
War. Wons, Mon, this Monk sticks in my Gullet, the muckle Diel pull him out by th’ Lugs; the faud Loone will en spoyle and our Sport, mon.
Lam. I thought I had enough satisfied all your Fears; the Army’s mine, that is,— ’tis yours, my Lords, and I’ll imploy it too so well for the Good of the Commonwealth, you shall have Cause to commend both my Courage and Conduct; my Lord Wariston, will you accompany me?
War. Ah, my gued Lord, the Honour is too great. ’Tis not but I’s dare fight, my Lord, but I love not the limmer Loone, he has a villanous honest Face an’s ene; I’s ken’d him ence, and lik’t him not; but I’s drink tol yar gued Fortune; let it gang aboote, ene and ad, Sirs.
[All drink.
Lam. We’ll leave all Discourse of Bus’ness, and give our selves to Mirth; I fancy good Success from this day’s Omen.
Enters Gill, whispers L. Lam. she rises.
L. Lam. Waited so long!
Gill. And grew impatient, an’t please your Highness; must I go tell him you cannot see him to night.
L. Lam. Not for the World; my silly Politician will be
Busying himself in the dull Affairs of State;
— Dull in comparison of Love, I mean;
I never lov’d before; old Oliver I suffer’d for my Interest,
And ’tis some Greatness, to be Mistress to the best;
But this mighty Pleasure comes a propos,
To sweeten all the heavy Toils of Empire.
Gill. So it does, an’t please your Highness.
L. Lam. Go, let him know I’m coming — Madam, I must beg your Pardon; you hear, my Lord to morrow goes on his great Expedition; and, for any thing we know, may fall a glorious Sacrifice to the Commonwealth; therefore ’tis meet I offer up some Prayers for his Safety, and all my leisure Hours ‘twixt this and that, will be too few — Your humble Servant, Madam.
[Ex. L. Lam. and Gill.
L. Fleet. My Dear, I’ll leave you too, my time of Devotion is come, and Heav’n will stay for no Body; where are my People? is my Coach ready, or my Chair?
Fleet. Go in your Chair, my Love, lest you catch cold.
L. Fleet. And light your Flambeaus, — I love to have my Chair surrounded with Flambeaus.
Enter Page.
Page. Your Chair is ready, Madam.
[She goes out led by Fleet.
Hews. What think ye now, my Lords, of settling the Nation a little? I find my Head swim with Politicks, and what ye call ums.
War. Wons, and wad ya settle the Nation when we real our selves?
Hews. Who, pox, shall we stand making Childrens Shoes all the Year? No, no, let’s begin to settle the Nation, I say, and go thro-stitch with our Work.
Duc. Right, we have no Head to obey; so that if this Scotch General do come whilst we Dogs fight for the Bone, he runs away with it.
Hews. Shaw, we shall patch up matters with the Scotch General, I’ll warrant you: However, here’s to our next Head — One and all.
[All drink.
Fleet. Verily, Sirs, this Health-drinking savoureth of Monarchy, and is a Type of Malignancy.
War. Bread, my Lord, no preaching o’er yar Liquer, wee’s now for a Cup o’ th’ Creature.
Cob. In a gadly way you may; it is lawful.
Lam. Come, come, we’re dull, give us some Musick — come, my Lord, I’ll give you a Song, I love Musick as I do a Drum, there’s Life and Soul in’t, call my Musick.
Fleet. Yea, I am for any Musick, except an Organ.
War. Sbread, Sirs, and I’s for a Horn-pipe, I’ve a faud Theefe here shall dance ye Dance tol a Horn-pipe, with any States-man a ya aud.
All. He, he, he.
Duc. I know not what your faud Theefe can do; but I’ll hold you a Wager, Colonel Hewson, and Colonel Desbro shall dance ye the Seint’s Jigg with any Sinner of your Kirk, or field Conventicler.
War. Wons, and I’s catch ‘em at that Sport, I’s dance tol ‘em for a Scotch Poond; but farst yar Song, my Lord, I hope ’tis boody, or else ’tis not werth a Feart.
All. He, he, he.
SONG, sung by my Lord Lambert.
A Pox of the States-man that’s witty,
That watches and plots all the sleepless Night,
For seditious Harangues to the Whigs of the City,
And piously turns a Traitor in spite.
Let him wrack, and torment his lean Carrion,
To bring his sham-Plots about,
Till Religion, King, Bishop, and Baron,
For the publick Good, be quite routed out.
Whilst we that are no Politicians,
But Rogues that are resolute, bare-fac’d and great,
Boldly head the rude Rabble in open Sedition,
Bearing all down before us in Church and in State.
Your Impudence is the best State-trick,
And he that by Law means to rule,
Let his History with ours be related,
Tho we prove the Knaves, ’tis he is the Fool.
War. The Diel a me, wele sung, my Lord, and gen aud Trades fail, yas make a quaint Minstrel.
All. He, he, he.
War. Noo, Sirs, yar Dance? [They fling Cushions at one another, and grin. Musick plays.] — Marry, Sirs, an this be yar dancing, tol dance and ne’er stir Stap, the Diel lead the Donce for Archibald.
[When they have flung Cushions thus a while to the Musick time,
they beat each other from the Table, one by one, and fall into
a godly Dance; after a while, Wariston rises, and dances
ridiculously a while amongst them; then to the Time of the Tune,
they take out the rest, as at the Cushion-Dance, or in that
nature. Wariston being the last taken in, leads the rest.
— Haud, Minstrels, haud; Bread a gued. I’s fatch ad Ladies in — lead away, Minstrels, tol my Lady’s Apartment.
[Musick playing before all.
[Exeunt dancing.