Is't possible the spells of France should juggle
1.3.2572Men into such strange mysteries?
New customs,
1.3.4574Though they be never so ridiculous,
1.3.5575(Nay let 'em be unmanly) yet are followed.
As far as I see, all the good our English
1.3.7577Have got by the late voyage is but merely
1.3.8578A fit or two o'th'face, (but they are shrewd ones)
1.3.9579For when they hold 'em you would swear directly
1.3.10580Their very noses had been counselors
1.3.11581To Pepin or Clotharius, they keep state so.
They have all new legs
1.3.14584That never see 'em pace before, the spavine
'Death my Lord,
1.3.17587Their clothes are after such a pagan cut to't
1.3.18588That sure th'have worn out Christendom.
[to Lovell] How now?
Faith my Lord,
1.3.21592I hear of none but the new proclamation,
What is't for?
The reformation of our travelled gallants,
1.3.25596That fill the court with quarrels, talk, and tailors.
I'm glad 'tis there;
1.3.28599To think an English courtier may be wise
They must either
1.3.31602(For so run the conditions) leave those remnants
1.3.32603Of fool and feather that they got in France,
1.3.33604With all their honorable points of ignorance
1.3.34605Pertaining thereunto, as fights and fireworks,
1.3.36607Out of a foreign wisdom, renouncing clean
1.3.37608The faith they have in tennis and tall stockings,
1.3.38609Short blistered breeches, and those types of travel,
1.3.39610And understand again like honest men,
1.3.40611Or pack to their old playfellows. There, I take it,
1.3.42613The lag end of their lewdness and be laughed at.
'Tis time to give 'em physic, their diseases
What a loss our ladies
Ay, marry,
1.3.48619There will be woe indeed lords, the sly whoresons
1.3.49620Have got a speeding trick to lay down ladies.
1.3.50621A French song and a fiddle has no fellow.
The devil fiddle 'em!
1.3.53624For sure there's no converting of 'em. Now
1.3.54625An honest country lord as I am, beaten
1.3.55626A long time out of play, may bring his plain song
1.3.56627And have an hour of hearing, and by'r Lady
Well said, Lord Sandys.
No my Lord,
Sir Thomas,
To the cardinal's.
O, 'tis true!
1.3.67638This night he makes a supper, and a great one,
1.3.68639To many lords and ladies. There will be
1.3.69640The beauty of this kingdom, I'll assure you.
That churchman
1.3.72643A hand as fruitful as the land that feeds us:
No doubt he's noble:
1.3.75646He had a black mouth that said other of him.
He may, my Lord;
1.3.78649Sparing would show a worse sin than ill doctrine.
1.3.79650Men of his way should be most liberal:
True, they are so,
1.3.84655Your lordship shall along. Come, good Sir Thomas,
1.3.85656We shall be late else, which I would not be,
1.3.86657For I was spoke to, with Sir Henry Guilford
I am your lordship's.