Act 1 - Scene 3
An ante-chamber in the palace.
Enter Chamberlain and SANDS
Is't possible the spells of France should juggle
Men into such strange mysteries?
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
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
springhalt reign'd among 'em.
Death! my lord,
Their clothes are after such a pagan cut too,
That, sure, they've worn out Christendom.
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,
see the Louvre.
They must either,
For so run the conditions, leave those remnants
Of fool and feather that they got in
With all their honourable point of ignorance
Pertaining thereunto, as fights and fireworks,
better men than they can be,
Out of a foreign wisdom, renouncing clean
The faith they have in tennis,
and tall stockings,
Short blister'd breeches, and those types of travel,
And understand again like honest
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.
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