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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