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 Rochester. Nay, 'tis serious, Nor of my quatrains the least excellent. And, more, 'tis writ for such a charming maid! For Frances Cromwell! Ormond. Frances Cromwell? Rochester. Yes. I'm sick with love of her. Ormond. The youngest child Of Cromwell? Rochester. Ay, of Cromwell! 'Pon my word, She's a sweet creature; nay,—what do I say?— An angel, in good sooth! Ormond. By all the gods! Lord Rochester in love with— Rochester. Frances Cromwell. By your surprise I readily divine That you that radiant beauty ne'er have seen. Years seventeen, black hair, a noble port, Fair as a lily, and such shapely hands! Such lovely eyes, my lord! a very sylph! A nymph! I saw her only yesterday. She was ill-coifed; no matter! Everything Her charms enhances, everything becomes her. 'Tis said that 'twas but last month that she came To London, and that, having by her aunt Been nurtured, far from Cromwell's side, she loves, Ay, dearly loves the King. Ormond. Pure balderdash, Lord Rochester! But, pray, where saw you her? Rochester.Last night, at Westminster, at the great feast That London City to old Cromwell gave.— May God confound him!—I was curious To see his Mightiness; but when I stood Beside his daïs, first of all I saw