Cel. Prethee, who is't that thou means't?
Clo. One that old Fredericke your Father loues

Ros. My Fathers loue is enough to honor him enough;
speake no more of him, you'l be whipt for taxation one
of these daies

Clo. The more pittie that fooles may not speak wisely,
what Wisemen do foolishly

Cel. By my troth thou saiest true: For, since the little
wit that fooles haue was silenced, the little foolerie that
wise men haue makes a great shew; Heere comes Monsieur
the Beu.
Enter le Beau.

Ros. With his mouth full of newes

Cel. Which he will put on vs, as Pigeons feed their
young

Ros. Then shal we be newes-cram'd

Cel. All the better: we shalbe the more Marketable.
Boon-iour Monsieur le Beu, what's the newes?
Le Beu. Faire Princesse,
you haue lost much good sport

Cel. Sport: of what colour?