Did. Mounseir La Busse, my lords most loved sonne, Your companye is fayre. [Exit Didier.
Gab. The fellowe mocks us.
Bus. Had a sayd good too, then you might have douted, But fayr's an epethyte you bothe may challenge.
Ber. And why not good?
Bus. A courtier might have spared it
And as he is a courtier beene excusd
Thoughe it were false; for he whose tonge and harte
Runne one selfe course shall seldome find the way
To a preferment. Nowe the courte is growne
As strange a beast as the thronged multytude,
Dyffers not from the rabble, onlye tys
The upper house.
Ber. Why will you be a lymbe Of such a beast?
Bus. Faythe, onlye for sporte sake.
Gab. I rather thynke to make it more deformd.
Buss. Be not so bytter, ladye. Howe can I,
Though I shoulde onlye studye vanytie,
Be seene amongst so manye that out-glosse me
In everye severall follye.
Ber. Yet littill Richard, Aimons youngest sonne, Is suche a man your envye cannot taxe hym.