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Frances, so modest and so beautiful,
And, charmed and stricken dumb, I saw nought else.
Albeit pushed and jostled by the mob;
My eyes from that sole object wavered not;
And, when I left the place, I could not say
Whether, in speaking, Cromwell stands erect
Or stoops, whether his forehead is too low,
His nose too long, or whether he is sad
Or merry, plain or comely, dark or fair.
In all that multitude, I saw but one,
A woman, and since then, upon my soul,
My lord, I'm mad!
Ormond. My lord, I'm mad! I' faith, I think 'tis so.
Rochester.This is my rondeau—in the latest mode.
Ormond.'Tis all the same to me.
Rochester. 'Tis all the same to me. The same! nay, nay!
You know that Shakespeare, if the truth be told,
Is but a savage, Wither a great man.
Is there in all "Macbeth" a madrigal?
The English taste retreats before the French;
Talent—
Ormond [aside.] Talent—A murrain on the English taste!
And on the French taste! and the quatrain too!
St. George! His folly is past remedy.
[Aloud.
Pardon, my lord. To speak without reserve,
At such a time, 'twould better you become
To counsel me, to tell me where we stand,
How many gentlemen will join our ranks,
And if in Lambert we've a sure ally,—
Than to sing madrigals to Cromwell's daughters!
Rochester.Your lordship is o'er-rude. I may, methinks,
Untraitorously love a beauteous maid.
Ormond.Her father, too?