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.
CHAMBERLAIN.
O, ’tis true.
This night he makes a supper, and a great one,
To many lords and ladies. There will be
The beauty of this kingdom, I’ll assure you.
LOVELL.
That churchman bears a bounteous mind indeed,
A hand as fruitful as the land that feeds us.
His dews fall everywhere.
CHAMBERLAIN.
No doubt he’s noble;
He had a black mouth that said other of him.
SANDYS.
He may, my lord; has wherewithal. In him
Sparing would show a worse sin than ill doctrine.
Men of his way should be most liberal;
They are set here for examples.