Scene III. An Ante-Chamber in the Palace.

Is’t possible the spells of France should juggle Men into such strange mysteries?

New customs, Though they be never so ridiculous— Nay, let ’em be unmanly—yet are followed.

As far as I see, all the good our English Have got by the late voyage is but merely A fit or two o’ th’ face; but they are shrewd ones, For when they hold ’em, you would swear directly Their very noses had been counsellors To Pepin or Clotharius, they keep state so.

They have all new legs, and lame ones. One would take it, That never saw ’em pace before, the spavin Or springhalt reigned among ’em.

Death! My lord, Their clothes are after such a pagan cut to’t, That, sure, they’ve worn out Christendom.

Faith, my lord, I hear of none but the new proclamation That’s clapped upon the court gate.

The reformation of our travelled gallants That fill the court with quarrels, talk, and tailors.

I’m glad ’tis there. Now I would pray our monsieurs To think an English courtier may be wise And never see the Louvre.

They must either, For so run the conditions, leave those remnants Of fool and feather that they got in France, With all their honourable points of ignorance Pertaining thereunto, as fights and fireworks, Abusing better men than they can be Out of a foreign wisdom, renouncing clean The faith they have in tennis and tall stockings, Short blistered breeches, and those types of travel, And understand again like honest men, Or pack to their old playfellows. There, I take it, They may, cum privilegio, oui away The lag end of their lewdness and be laughed at.

’Tis time to give ’em physic, their diseases Are grown so catching.

What a loss our ladies Will have of these trim vanities!

Ay, marry, There will be woe indeed, lords. The sly whoresons Have got a speeding trick to lay down ladies. A French song and a fiddle has no fellow.

The devil fiddle ’em! I am glad they are going, For sure, there’s no converting of ’em. Now An honest country lord, as I am, beaten A long time out of play, may bring his plainsong And have an hour of hearing, and, by ’r Lady, Held current music too.

Well said, Lord Sandys. Your colt’s tooth is not cast yet.

No, my lord, Nor shall not while I have a stump.

Sir Thomas, Whither were you a-going?

To the Cardinal’s. Your lordship is a guest too.

O, ’tis true. This night he makes a supper, and a great one, To many lords and ladies. There will be The beauty of this kingdom, I’ll assure you.

That churchman bears a bounteous mind indeed, A hand as fruitful as the land that feeds us. His dews fall everywhere.

No doubt he’s noble; He had a black mouth that said other of him.

He may, my lord; has wherewithal. In him Sparing would show a worse sin than ill doctrine. Men of his way should be most liberal; They are set here for examples.

True, they are so, But few now give so great ones. My barge stays. Your lordship shall along. Come, good Sir Thomas, We shall be late else, which I would not be, For I was spoke to, with Sir Henry Guildford, This night to be comptrollers.