CHAMBERLAIN.
I’m glad ’tis there. Now I would pray our monsieurs
To think an English courtier may be wise
And never see the Louvre.
LOVELL.
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.
SANDYS.
’Tis time to give ’em physic, their diseases
Are grown so catching.
CHAMBERLAIN.
What a loss our ladies
Will have of these trim vanities!
LOVELL.
Ay, marry,
There will be woe indeed, lords. The sly whoresons
Have got a speeding trick to lay down ladies.
A French song and a fiddle has no fellow.
SANDYS.
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.
CHAMBERLAIN.
Well said, Lord Sandys.
Your colt’s tooth is not cast yet.
SANDYS.
No, my lord,
Nor shall not while I have a stump.
CHAMBERLAIN.
Sir Thomas,
Whither were you a-going?
LOVELL.
To the Cardinal’s.
Your lordship is a guest too.