A Room in the Palace. |
| |
Enter the Lord Chamberlain and LORD SANDS. |
| Cham. 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 follow'd. |
| Cham. 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 saw 'em pace before, the spavin |
| Or springhalt reign'd among 'em. |
| Cham. Death! my lord, |
| Their clothes are after such a pagan cut too, |
| That, sure, they've worn out Christendom. |
| |
Enter SIR THOMAS LOVELL. |
| How now! |
| What news, Sir Thomas Lovell? |
| Lov. Faith, my lord, |
| I hear of none, but the new proclamation |
| That's clapp'd upon the court-gate. |
| Cham. What is't for? |
| Lov. The reformation of our travell'd gallants, |
| That fill the court with quarrels, talk, and tailors. |
| Cham. I am glad 'tis there: now I would pray our monsieurs |
| To think an English courtier may be wise, |
| And never see the Louvre. |
| Lov. 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 blister'd 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, wear away |
| The lag end of their lewdness, and be laugh'd at. |
| Sands. 'Tis time to give 'em physic, their diseases |
| Are grown so catching. |
| Cham. What a loss our ladies |
| Will have of these trim vanities! |
| Lov. 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're 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. |
| Cham. Well said, Lord Sands; |
| Your colt's tooth is not cast yet. |
| Sands. No, my lord; |
| Nor shall not, while I have a stump. |
| Cham. Sir Thomas, |
| Whither were you a-going? |
| Lov. To the cardinal's: |
| Your lordship is a guest too. |
| Cham. 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. |
| Lov. That churchman bears a bounteous mind indeed, |
| A hand as fruitful as the land that feeds us; |
| His dews fall everywhere. |
| Cham. No doubt he's noble; |
| He had a black mouth that said other of him. |
| Sands. He may, my lord; he 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. |
| Cham. 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. |
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