Bian. How, my lord?
Bil. “Marry, my good lord,” quoth he, “your lordship shall ever find amongst a hundred Frenchmen forty hot-shots; amongst a hundred Spaniards, three-score braggarts; amongst a hundred Dutchmen, four-score drunkards; amongst an hundred Englishmen, four-score and ten madmen; and amongst an hundred Welshmen”—— 102
Bian. What, my lord?
Bil. “Four-score and nineteen gentlemen.”[461]
Bian. But since you go about a sad embassy, I would have you go in black, my lord.
Bil. Why, dost think I cannot mourn, unless I wear my hat in cipres,[462] like an alderman’s heir? that’s vile, very old, in faith.
Bian. I’ll learn of you shortly: O, we should have a
fine gallant of you, should not I instruct you! How will you bear yourself when you come into the Duke of Florence’ court? 113
Bil. Proud enough, and ’twill do well enough: as I walk up and down the chamber, I’ll spit frowns about me, have a strong perfume in my jerkin, let my beard grow to make me look terrible, salute no man beneath the fourth button; and ’twill do excellent.
Bian. But there is a very beautiful lady there; how will you entertain her? 120