Of the Lady’s Chamber
When I was come inside, after a parley with the footboy, I found her ladyship stretched upon a couch and seeming very weary and lackadaisical.
“O Lord,” says she, “’tis my old friend, Ryder. Sure, captain, you are come to make me merry of your wits, for I be sad enough.” And that was true, for she was pale, as I might discern beneath her colours. I was come in a very high spirit, and as elegant, I’ll warrant, as Sir Charles himself, saving for the gewgaws about him, and for all that she was so melancholical I was not to be stayed and started off very sprightly.
“O Lard, Ryder,” says she, “how you run on! And what is the news of Town?”
“Why,” said I, “there is nothing about the streets, your ladyship, save the runners, and that Sir Charles is fallen into a chagrin.”
She laughed soundly at that, and “O you rogue,” she says.
“And,” I went on, “beside that there is no news save the news that I love you, and that news is old news since last night.”
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