Part 9

Beaupre. And why did the toy take him inth' head now?

Buss. Tis leape yeare, lady, and therefore very 85 good to enter a courtier.

Henr. Marke, Duchesse of Guise, there is one is not bashfull.

Duch. No my lord, he is much guilty of the bold extremity. 90

Tam. The man's a courtier at first sight.

Buss. I can sing pricksong, lady, at first sight; and why not be a courtier as suddenly?

Beaup. Here's a courtier rotten before he be ripe. 95

Buss. Thinke me not impudent, lady; I am yet no courtier; I desire to be one and would gladly take entrance, madam, under your princely colours.

Enter Barrisor, L'Anou, Pyrhot.

Duch. Soft sir, you must rise by degrees, first 100 being the servant of some common Lady or Knights wife, then a little higher to a Lords wife; next a little higher to a Countesse; yet a little higher to a Duchesse, and then turne the ladder. 105

Buss. Doe you alow a man then foure mistresses, when the greatest mistresse is alowed but three servants?

Duch. Where find you that statute sir.

Buss. Why be judged by the groome-porters. 110

Duch. The groome-porters!

Buss. I, madam, must not they judge of all gamings i'th' Court?

Duch. You talke like a gamester.

Gui. Sir, know you me? 115

Buss. My lord!

Gui. I know not you; whom doe you serve?

Buss. Serve, my lord!

Gui. Go to companion; your courtship's too saucie. 120

Buss. Saucie! Companion! tis the Guise, but yet those termes might have beene spar'd of the guiserd. Companion! He's jealous, by this light. Are you blind of that side, Duke? Ile to her againe for that. Forth, princely mistresse, 125 for the honour of courtship. Another riddle.

Gui. Cease your courtshippe, or, by heaven, Ile cut your throat.

Buss. Cut my throat? cut a whetstone, young Accius Noevius! Doe as much with your 130 tongue as he did with a rasor. Cut my throat!

Barrisor. What new-come gallant have wee heere, that dares mate the Guise thus?

L'Anou. Sfoot, tis D'Ambois! the Duke mistakes him (on my life) for some Knight of the 135 new edition.

Buss. Cut my throat! I would the King fear'd thy cutting of his throat no more than I feare thy cutting of mine.

Gui. Ile doe't, by this hand. 140