Page:CromwellHugo.djvu/198

 Trick. 'Tis a foul shame; your words deserre the gibbet. Mistress Elizabeth's true knight am I. For Cromwell's honour and for hers I plead. I'll be her guarantor without a qualm, She is so ugly! Gramadoch. True. I'll not deny, When one has nought to say one talks to talk. For my own part I have a deadly fear Of ennui, which would make me ill, and so I'll sing a song to Echo. [He sings.

O monk, why with such an uproar Roar? Oh, say, doth thy Rose thee betray? —Ay.

And why art thou on the rampage, Page? Art thou Rose's lover also? —So.

What gives thee that air morose, Rose? —The husband, whom no one recalls, Calls.

From the bed where thou'rt held by love, Love, Thou seest him returning, alas! Lass.