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      Ha! what, so rank? Ah ha!

      There's mischief in this man. Canst thou say further?

      I can, my liege.

      Proceed.

      Being at Greenwich,

      After your Highness had reprov'd the Duke

      About Sir William Bulmer, —

      I remember

      Of such a time; being my sworn servant,

      The Duke retain'd him his. But on; what hence?

      "If," quoth he, "I for this had been committed,"

      – As, to the Tower, I thought, –  "I would have play'd

      The part my father meant to act upon

      The usurper Richard; who, being at Salisbury,

      Made suit to come in 's presence; which if granted,

      As he made semblance of his duty, would

      Have put his knife into him."

      A giant traitor!

      Now, madam, may his Highness live in freedom,

      And this man out of prison?

      God mend all!

      There's something more would out of thee; what say'st?

      After "the Duke his father," with "the knife,"

      He stretch'd him, and, with one hand on his dagger,

      Another spread on 's breast, mounting his eyes,

      He did discharge a horrible oath; whose tenour

      Was, were he evil us'd, he would outgo

      His father by as much as a performance

      Does an irresolute purpose.

      There's his period,

      To sheathe his knife in us. He is attach'd.

      Call him to present trial. If he may

      Find mercy in the law, 'tis his; if none,

      Let him not seek 't of us. By day and night,

      He's traitor to th' height.

      Is't possible the spells of France should juggle

      Men into such strange mysteries?

      New customs,

      Though they be never so ridiculous,

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

      As far as I see, all the good our English

      Have got by the late 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.

      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.

      Death! my lord,

      Their clothes are after such a pagan cut too,

      That, sure, they've worn out Christendom.

      How now!

      What news, Sir Thomas Lovell?

      Faith, my lord,

      I hear of none, but the new proclamation

      That's clapp'd upon the court-gate.

      What is't for?

      The reformation of our travell'd gallants,

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

      I'm glad 'tis there. Now I would pray our monsieurs

      To think an English courtier may be wise,

      And never see the Louvre.

      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.

      'Tis time to give 'em physic, their diseases

      Are grown so catching.

      What a loss our ladies

      Will have of these trim vanities!

      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.

      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

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