Goos. Yes, I'le ensure you Captaine, there are many of them truely emphaticall: but all your French Ladies are not fatt? are they sir?
Foul. Fatt sir? why doe ye thinke emphaticall is fatt, sir Gyles?
Rud. Gods my life, brother Knight, didst thou thinke so? hart I know not what it is my selfe, but yet I never thought it was fatt, Ile be sworne to thee.
Foul. Why if any true Courtly dame had had but this new fashioned sute, to entertaine anything indifferently stuffed, why you should have had her more respective by farre.
Rud. Nay, theres some reason for that, Captaine, me thinks a true woman should perpetually doate upon a new fashion.
Foul. Why y'are i'thright sir Cutt. In nova fert animus mutatas dicere formas[7]. Tis the mind of man, and woman to affect new fashions; but to our Mynsatives[8] for sooth, if he come like to your Besognio,[9] or your bore, so he be rich, or emphaticall, they care not; would I might never excell a dutch Skipper in Courtship, if I did not put distaste into my cariage of purpose; I knew I should not please them. Lacquay? allume le torche.
Rud. Slydd, heres neyther Torch, nor Lacquay, me thinks.
Foul. O mon dieu.
Rud. O doe not sweare Captaine.
Foul. Your Frenchman ever sweares, Sir Cutt, upon the lacke of his Lacquay, I assure you.