124
CROMWELL
[He dismisses all those present with a wave of the hand.
Farewell, duke—gentlemen.
[Exeunt all through a door at the side, with renewed reverences.—The Earl of Carlisle and Whitelocke ceremoniously escort the French Ambassador.—During their exit, enter Elizabeth Bourchier (Cromwell's wife), Mistress Fleetwood, Lady Falconbridge, Lady Claypole and Lady Frances, her daughters. They curtsey to their father.
Scene 3.—Cromwell; Elizabeth Bourchier, Mistress Fleetwood, both in black, the latter especially affecting Puritan simplicity; Lady Falconbridge, dressed with much richness and elegance; Lady Claypole, wrapped up like a sick person, with a languishing air; Lady Frances, a young girl, in white, with a veil.
Cromwell [to the Protectress.] Good-morrow, dame. You seem in evil case.
Slept you not well?
Elizabeth Bourchier. Nay, not till break the day
Closed I my eyes. Ah, Sir, in very truth,
I like not all this pomp and ceremony.
The chamber of the Queen, wherein I lie,
Is too enormous. That emblazoned bed
Whereon the Stuarts and the Tudors lay,
That gorgeous cloth of silver canopy,
Those posts of gilded wood, the kingly plumes,
The balustrade that holds me captive on
My royal daïs, and the ornaments
And velvet furniture—'tis like a dream
Which takes away my sleep!—And one must needs
