Cham.
Is't ^note possible the spells of France should juggle
Men into such strange mysteries ^note?

Sands.
New customs,
Though they be never so ridiculous,
Nay, let 'em ^note be unmanly, yet are follow'd.

Cham.
As far as I see, all the good our English
Have got by the late ^note voyage is but merely
A fit or two o' the face; but they are shrewd ones;
For when they hold 'em, you would swear directly
Their very noses had been counsellors
To Pepin or Clotharius, they keep state so.

Sands.
They have all new legs, and lame ones: one would take it ^note,
That never ^note saw 'em ^note pace before, the spavin
Or ^note springhalt ^note reign'd ^note among 'em.

Cham.
Death! my lord,
Their clothes are after such a pagan cut too ^note,
That, sure, they've ^note worn out Christendom. Enter ^note Sir Thomas Lovell.
How now!
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.

Cham.
What is't for?

Lov.
The reformation of our travell'd gallants,
That fill the court with quarrels, talk, and tailors.

Cham.
I'm ^note glad 'tis there: now I would pray our monsieurs ^note
To think an English courtier may be wise,
And never see the Louvre ^note.

Lov.
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 ^note, as fights and fireworks,
Abusing better men than they can be
Out of a foreign wisdom, renouncing clean ^note
The faith they have in tennis and tall stockings,
Short blister'd ^note breeches and those ^note types of travel,
And understand again like honest men,
Or pack to their old playfellows: there, I take it,
They may, ‘cum privilegio,’ wear ^note away
The lag end of their lewdness, and be laugh'd at.

Sands.
'Tis time to give 'em ^note physic, their diseases
Are grown so catching.

Cham.
What a loss our ladies
Will have of these trim vanities!

Lov.
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.

Sands.
The devil fiddle 'em! I am glad they are going ^note,
For, sure, there's no converting of 'em: now ^note

An honest country lord, as I am, beaten
A long time out of play, may bring his plain-song,
And have an hour of hearing; and, by'r lady,
Held ^note current music too.

Cham.
Well said, Lord Sands;
Your colt's tooth is not cast yet. ^note

Sands.
No, my lord;
Nor shall ^note not, while I have a stump.

Cham.
Sir Thomas,
Whither were ^note you a-going ^note?

Lov.
To the cardinal's:
Your lordship is a guest too.

Cham.
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.

Lov.
That churchman bears a bounteous mind indeed ^note,
A hand as fruitful as the land that feeds us;
His dews fall ^note every where.

Cham.
No doubt he's noble;
He had a black mouth that said other of him.

Sands.
He may, my lord; has ^note wherewithal: in him ^{note note}
Sparing would show a worse sin than ill doctrine:
Men of his way ^note should be most liberal;
They are ^note set ^note here for examples.

Cham.
True, they are so;
But few now give so great ones. My barge stays ^note;
Your lordship shall along. Come, good Sir Thomas,
We shall be late else; which I would not be,

For I was spoke to, with Sir Henry Guildford
This night to be comptrollers.

Sands.
I am your lordship's. [Exeunt. ^note

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