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

Cham.
As far as I see, all the good our English
Have got by the last voyage, is but merely
A fit or two o'th' 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've all new legs, and lame ones; one would take it,
(That never saw 'em pace before) the spavin
And spring-halt reign'd among 'em.

Cham.
Death! my Lord.
Their cloaths are after such a pagan cut too,
That, sure, they've worn out christendom: how now?
What news? Sir Thomas Lovell? Enter Sir Thomas Lovell.

Lov.
Faith, my Lord,
I hear of none, but the new proclamation
That's clap'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 glad, 'tis there; now I would pray our Monsieurs
To think an English courtier may be wise,
And never see the Louvre.

Lov.
They must either
(For so run the conditions) &wlquo;leave those remnants
&wlquo;Of fool and feather, that they got in France;
&wlquo;With all their honourable points of ignorance
&wlquo;Pertaining thereunto, as fights and fire-works;
&wlquo;Abusing better men than they can be,
&wlquo;Out of a foreign wisdom; clean renouncing

&wlquo;The faith they have in tennis, and tall stockings,
&wlquo;Short-bolster'd breeches, ^{2 note}and those types of travel;
&wlquo;And understand again like honest men,&wrquo;
Or pack to their old play-fellows; there, I take it,
They may, cum privilegio, wear away
The lag-end of their lewdness, and be laughed at.

Sands.
'Tis time to give them physick, 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'm glad, they're going:
For, sure, there's no converting 'em: now, Sirs,
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 current musick too.

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

Sands.
No, my Lord,
Nor shall not, while I have a stump.

Cham.
Sir Thomas,
Whither are you going?

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;
A hand as fruitful as the land that feeds us,
His dew falls ev'ry where.

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

Sands.
He may, my Lord, h'as wherewithal: in him,
Sparing would shew a worse sin than ill doctrine.
Men of his way should be most liberal,
They're set here for examples.

Cham.
True, they are so;
But few now give so great ones: my barge stays;
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 Guilford,
This night to be comptrollers.

Sands.
I'm your Lordship's. [Exeunt.

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