CHAMBERLAIN. Is't possible the spells of France should juggle

          Men into such strange mysteries?

        SANDYS. New customs,

          Though they be never so ridiculous,

          Nay, let 'em be unmanly, yet are follow'd.

        CHAMBERLAIN. As far as I see, all the good our English

          Have got by the late 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.

        SANDYS. They have all new legs, and lame ones. One would take

      it,

          That never saw 'em pace before, the spavin

          Or springhalt reign'd among 'em.

        CHAMBERLAIN. Death! my lord,

          Their clothes are after such a pagan cut to't,

          That sure th' have worn out Christendom.

          How now?

          What news, Sir Thomas Lovell?

        LOVELL. Faith, my lord,

          I hear of none but the new proclamation

          That's clapp'd upon the court gate.

        CHAMBERLAIN. What is't for?

        LOVELL. The reformation of our travell'd gallants,

          That fill the court with quarrels, talk, and tailors.

        CHAMBERLAIN. I am 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 blist'red 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, wear away

          The lag end of their lewdness and be laugh'd 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 '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 stamp.

        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