Pure innovation is more grosse than error. _Mont._ No question we shall see them imitate (Though a farre off) the fashions of our Courts, As they have ever ap't us in attire; Never were men so weary of their skins, And apt to leape out of themselves as they; Who, when they travell to bring forth rare men, Come home delivered of a fine French suit: Their braines lie with their tailors, and get babies For their most compleat issue; hee's sole heire To all the morall vertues that first greetes The light with a new fashion, which becomes them Like apes, disfigur'd with the attires of men. _Henr._ No question they much wrong their reall worth In affectation of outlandish scumme; But they have faults, and we more: they foolish-proud To jet in others plumes so haughtely; We proud that they are proud of foolerie, Holding our worthes more compleat for their vaunts. _Enter Monsieur, D'Ambois._ _Monsieur._ Come, mine owne sweet heart, I will enter thee. Sir, I have brought a gentleman to court; And pray, you would vouchsafe to doe him grace. _Henr._ D'Ambois, I thinke. _Bussy._ That's still my name, my lord, Though I be something altered in attire. _Henr._ We like your alteration, and must tell you, We have expected th'offer of your service; For we (in feare to make mild vertue proud) Use not to seeke her out in any man. _Buss._ Nor doth she use to seeke out any man: He that will winne, must wooe her: she's not shameless. _Mons._ I urg'd her modestie in him, my lord, And gave her those rites that he sayes shee merits. _Henr._ If you have woo'd and won, then, brother, weare him. _Mons._ Th'art mine, sweet heart! See, here's the Guises Duches; The Countesse of Mountsurreaue, Beaupre. Come, I'le enseame thee. Ladies, y'are too many To be in counsell: I have here a friend That I would gladly enter in your graces.
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