Fur.  Why tis their mother tongue, my noble Knight. 
But (as I tell you) I seem’d not to note
The Ladies notes of me, but held my talke,
With that Italionate Frenchman, and tooke time
(Still as our conference serv’d) to shew my Courtship
In the three quarter legge, and setled looke,
The quicke kisse of the top of the forefinger,
And other such exploytes of good Accost;
All which the Ladies tooke into their eyes
With such attention that their favours swarm’d
About my bosome, in my hart, mine eares,
In skarffes about my thighes, upon mine armes
Thicke on my wristes, and thicker on my hands,
And still the lesse I sought, the more I found. 
All this I tell to this notorious end,
That you may use your Courtship with lesse care
To your coy mistresses; As when we strike
A goodly Sammon, with a little line,
We doe not tugge to hale her up by force,
For then our line wood breake, and our hooke lost;
But let her carelesse play alongst the streame,
As you had left her, and sheele drowne her selfe.

Foul.  A my life a most rich comparison.

Goos.  Never stirre if it be not a richer Caparison then my Lorde my Cosin wore at Tilt, for that was brodred with nothing but moone-shine ith the water, and this has Sammons in’t; by heaven a most edible Caparison.

Ru.  Odious thou woodst say, for Comparisons are odious.

Foul.  So they are indeed, sir Cut., all but my Lords.

Goos.  Be Caparisons odious, sir Cut; what, like flowers?

Rud.  O asse they be odorous.[39]

Goos.  A botts a that stincking word odorous, I can never hitt on’t.

Fur.  And how like you my Court-counsell, gallants, ha?

Foul.  Out of all proportion excellent, my Lord; and beleeve it, for Emphaticall Courtship, your Lordship puts downe all the Lords of the Court.

Fur.  No, good Captaine, no.

Foul.  By France you doe, my Lord, for Emphaticall Courtship.

Fur.  For Emphaticall Courtship indeed I can doe somewhat.

Foul.  Then does your merry entertainment become you so festifally, that you have all the bravery of a Saint Georges Day about ye, when you use it.

Fur.  Nay thats too much, in sadnesse, Captaine.

Goos.  O good, my Lord, let him prayse you, what so ere it costs your Lordship.

Foul.  I assure your Lordship, your merry behaviour does so festifally show upon you, that every high holliday, when Ladies wood be most beautifull, every one wishes to God she were turnd into such a little Lord as you, when y’are merry.

Goos.  By this fire they doe my Lord, I have heard am.

Fur.  Marry God forbid, Knight, they shood be turnd into me; I had rather be turnd into them, a mine honour.