Enter the Lord Chamberlain and Lord Sands
Is't possible the spells of France should juggle
Men into such strange mysteries?
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,
leg (n.) 1
bending of a knee, genuflection, obeisance
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.
Enter Sir Thomas Lovell
What news, Sir Thomas Lovell?
Faith, my lord,
I hear of none but the new proclamation
That's clapped upon the court gate.
clap (v.) 4
put smartly, place promptly, set effectively
What is't for?
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!
There will be woe indeed, lords! The sly whoresons
[son of a whore; serious or jocular term of abuse] fellow, bastard
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 Sands.
Your colt's tooth is not cast yet?
No, my lord,
Nor shall not while I have a stump.
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 Guilford,
This night to be comptrollers.
I am your lordship's.