[Exit.
Enter Giovanno and Philippa.
Gio. Begare, madam, me make de gowne so brave; O, de hole vorle[37] be me patron; me ha vorke for le grand duches le Shevere, le royne de Francia, Spagna, de Angleter, and all d' fine madamosels.
Phil. Nay, monsieur, to deprive desert of praise is unknown language; troth, I use it not; nay, it is very well.
Gio. Be me trot, a, madam, me ner do ill, de English man do ill, de Spanere do, de Duch, de all do ill but your Franchman, and, begare, he do incomparable brave.
Phil. Y' are too proud on't.
Gio. Begare, me no proud i de vorle, me speak be me trot de trut, ang me no lie: metra, madam, begare, you have de find bode a de vorle, O de fine brave big ting me have ever measure, me waire fit it so pat.[38]
Enter Raymond.
Phil. Welcome, my lord!
Shall I still long, yet lose my longing still?
Is there no art to mount the lofty seat?
No engine that may make us ever great?
Must we be still styl'd subjects, and for fear
Our closest whispers reach the awing ear,
Not trust the wind?