Lord Chamberlain

Is't possible the spells of France should juggle

Men into such strange mysteries?

Sands

New customs,

Though they be never so ridiculous,

Nay, let 'em be unmanly, yet are followed.

Lord Chamberlain

As far as I see, all the good our English

Have got by the late voyage is but merely

A fit or two o' the 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.

Sands

They have all new legs, and lame ones: one would take it,

That never see 'em pace before, the spavin

And springhalt reigned among 'em.

Lord Chamberlain

Death! my lord,

Their clothes are after such a pagan cut to't,

That, sure, th' have worn out Christendom. Enter SIR THOMAS LOVELL.

How now!

What news, Sir Thomas Lovell?

Lovell

Faith, my lord,

I hear of none, but the new proclamation

That's clapped upon the court gate.

Lord Chamberlain

What is't for?

Lovell

The reformation of our travelled gallants,

That fill the court with quarrels, talk, and tailors.

Lord Chamberlain

I'm glad 'tis there: now I would pray our monsieurs

To think an English courtier may be wise,

And never see the Louvre.

Lovell

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.

Sands

'Tis time to give 'em physic, their diseases

Are grown so catching.

Lord Chamberlain

What a loss our ladies

Will have of these trim vanities!

Lovell

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.

Sands

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.

Lord Chamberlain

Well said, Lord Sands;

Your colt's tooth is not cast yet.

Sands

No, my lord;

Nor shall not, while I have a stump.

Lord Chamberlain

Sir Thomas,

Whither were you a-going?

Lovell

To the cardinal's:

Your lordship is a guest too.

Lord Chamberlain

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.

Lovell

That churchman bears a bounteous mind indeed,

A hand as fruitful as the land that feeds us;

His dews fall every where.

Lord Chamberlain

No doubt he's noble;

He had a black mouth that said other of him.

Sands

He may, my lord; he's 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.

Lord Chamberlain

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.

Sands

I am your lordship's. Exeunt.