Speeches (Lines) for Lord Sands in "History of Henry VIII"

Lord Chamberlain. Is't possible the spells of France should juggle
Men into such strange mysteries?

Lord Sands. New customs,
Though they be never so ridiculous,
Nay, let 'em be unmanly, yet are follow'd.

Lord Chamberlain. As far as I see, all the good our English
Have got by the late voyage is but merely
A fit or two o' the face; but they are shrewd ones;
For when they hold 'em, you would swear directly
Their very noses had been counsellors
To Pepin or Clotharius, they keep state so.

Lord Sands. They have all new legs, and lame ones: one would take it,
That never saw 'em pace before, the spavin
Or springhalt reign'd among 'em.

Sir Thomas Lovell. They must either,
For so run the conditions, leave those remnants
Of fool and feather that they got in France,
With all their honourable point 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 blister'd 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.

Lord Sands. 'Tis time to give 'em physic, their diseases
Are grown so catching.

Sir Thomas 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.

Lord Sands. The devil fiddle 'em! I am glad they are going,
For, sure, there's no converting of 'em: now
An honest country lord, as I am, beaten
A long time out of play, may bring his plainsong
And have an hour of hearing; and, by'r lady,
Held current music too.

Lord Chamberlain. Well said, Lord Sands;
Your colt's tooth is not cast yet.

Lord Sands. No, my lord;
Nor shall not, while I have a stump.

Lord Chamberlain. No doubt he's noble;
He had a black mouth that said other of him.

Lord Sands. He may, my lord; has wherewithal: in him
Sparing would show a worse sin than ill doctrine:
Men of his way should be most liberal;
They are set here for examples.

Lord Chamberlain. True, they are so:
But few now give so great ones. My barge stays;
Your lordship shall along. Come, good Sir Thomas,
We shall be late else; which I would not be,
For I was spoke to, with Sir Henry Guildford
This night to be comptrollers.

Lord Sands. I am your lordship's.

Lord Chamberlain. You are young, Sir Harry Guildford.

Lord Sands. Sir Thomas Lovell, had the cardinal
But half my lay thoughts in him, some of these
Should find a running banquet ere they rested,
I think would better please 'em: by my life,
They are a sweet society of fair ones.

Sir Thomas Lovell. O, that your lordship were but now confessor
To one or two of these!

Lord Sands. I would I were;
They should find easy penance.

Sir Thomas Lovell. Faith, how easy?

Lord Sands. As easy as a down-bed would afford it.

Lord Chamberlain. Sweet ladies, will it please you sit? Sir Harry,
Place you that side; I'll take the charge of this:
His grace is entering. Nay, you must not freeze;
Two women placed together makes cold weather:
My Lord Sands, you are one will keep 'em waking;
Pray, sit between these ladies.

Lord Sands. By my faith,
And thank your lordship. By your leave, sweet ladies:
If I chance to talk a little wild, forgive me;
I had it from my father.

Anne Bullen. Was he mad, sir?

Lord Sands. O, very mad, exceeding mad, in love too:
But he would bite none; just as I do now,
He would kiss you twenty with a breath.

Lord Chamberlain. Well said, my lord.
So, now you're fairly seated. Gentlemen,
The penance lies on you, if these fair ladies
Pass away frowning.

Lord Sands. For my little cure,
Let me alone.

Cardinal Wolsey. You're welcome, my fair guests: that noble lady,
Or gentleman, that is not freely merry,
Is not my friend: this, to confirm my welcome;
And to you all, good health.

Lord Sands. Your grace is noble:
Let me have such a bowl may hold my thanks,
And save me so much talking.

Cardinal Wolsey. My Lord Sands,
I am beholding to you: cheer your neighbours.
Ladies, you are not merry: gentlemen,
Whose fault is this?

Lord Sands. The red wine first must rise
In their fair cheeks, my lord; then we shall have 'em
Talk us to silence.

Anne Bullen. You are a merry gamester,
My Lord Sands.

Lord Sands. Yes, if I make my play.
Here's to your ladyship: and pledge it, madam,
For 'tis to such a thing,--

Anne Bullen. You cannot show me.

Lord Sands. I told your grace they would talk anon.