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 8.—.

Cromwell [spying ' at ' feet. By what chance, my master, do I find You at my daughter's feet? Rochester [dumbfounded, without changing his position, aside. 'Tis Cromwell! God! I am a dead man! 'Tis a grievous thing For a mere peccadillo to be hanged! Taken red-handed, too! No punishment Will be too great for me! Cromwell. How now, my chaplain! Lady Frances [aside. I must e'en be indulgent. He is mad! Cromwell [to the terror-stricken. You did not reckon on my vengeance, sirrah! Lady Frances [aside. My father in his wrath might kill the poor Unfortunate! Cromwell. The misbegotten knave! He dares to be enamoured of my daughter! And to his serpent's tongue my Eve gave ear! What, Frances! You permit— Lady Frances [with an embarrassed air.] Your pardon, father— My lord—not of myself he spoke to me. Cromwell.Prithee, of whom spake he, upon his knees? Lady Frances.He but implored my aid to crown his flame; He seeks the hand of one of my tire-women. Rochester [springing to his feet in amazement, aside. What does she say? Cromwell. Whose hand? Lady Frances [smiling.] Dame Guggligoy's.