Cham. Death! my lord,
Their clothes are after such a pagan cut too,[176]
That, sure, they've worn out Christendom.
Enter Sir Thomas Lovell.[177]
How now! 15
What news, Sir Thomas Lovell?
Lov. Faith, my lord,
I hear of none but the new proclamation
That's clapp'd upon the court-gate.
Lov. The reformation of our travell'd gallants,
That fill the court with quarrels, talk, and tailors. 20
Cham. I'm glad 'tis there: now I would pray our monsieurs[178]
To think an English courtier may be wise,
And never see the Louvre.[179]
Lov. They must either,
For so run the conditions, leave those remnants
Of fool and feather that they got in France, 25
With all their honourable points of ignorance
Pertaining thereunto, as fights and fireworks,[180]
Abusing better men than they can be
Out of a foreign wisdom, renouncing clean[181]
The faith they have in tennis and tall stockings, 30
Short blister'd breeches and those types of travel,[182]
And understand again like honest men,
Or pack to their old playfellows: there, I take it,
They may, 'cum privilegio,' wear away[183]
The lag end of their lewdness, and be laugh'd at. 35
Sands. 'Tis time to give 'em physic, their diseases[184]
Are grown so catching.
Cham. What a loss our ladies
Will have of these trim vanities!