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 of 'em. Now