In verity I belong to the brutish, bearded sex, as you may prove, my lord, when the occasion pleases you. [_Bows to Herbert._] But “naturally” offends my sense, ’tis a gross and vulgar birth. Prithee, my lord, do you dress “naturally”? or eat “naturally”? or house “naturally”? And if to be natural in all these is savage-vile, why should a man talk “naturally,” like a lewd barbarian? HERBERT: I mean why be singular in speech—fanciful, peculiar? LACY: The first man who made a girdle of skins instead of the fig-leaf was so admonished, and with equal consistency. Why wear a slashed doublet, my lord—most “fanciful-peculiar”? HERBERT: It becomes my place. LACY: And so my speech is more ornate than peasants use. HERBERT: But my doublet isn’t tagged with silly, useless ornaments, like your “scent the air,” and “sage-green with jealousy”! Green is good enough. LACY: Green means nothing; but sage-green paints the bilious tinge of soured vanity; still, a dispute about the shade concedes the principle. HERBERT: No, I think the common speech better, stronger. LACY: No! No! Ten thousand negatives! I abhor your common fustian speech. Words, like coins, grow lighter in the using; so I mint a new word to charm the ear, as a jeweller sets a gem to catch the eye. [_Turning to Miss Fitton._] But I’ve tired you, most divine fair, with peevish argument, instead of pleasing with example. I entreat forgiveness: am carmined with confusion. [_A bevy of girls come up: the first cries_—] “We are allowed to dance”: [_the second_—] “How shall we begin, with the galliard or the Coranto?” [_They speak chiefly to Lord Herbert and Mistress Fitton, because Lord Lacy is staring at one of their number, Lady Joan Nevil. Lacy, turning again to Herbert._] What heavenly pulchritude! casting light, not shadow, upon earth. Who is the wonder, nymph or angel? My eyes are blinded by her celestial radiance. HERBERT: [_Stepping forward._] Lady Joan, let me present Lord Lacy here, who professes himself your admirer. LACY: [_Bowing to the ground._] Admirer [_with a reproachful glance at Herbert_], worshipper of your most angelic loveliness! Lady, my senses are all your slaves. LADY JOAN: I free them at once, my lord. I would not slavish service. LACY: O voice most tuneful and beyond music harmonious! LADY JOAN: Praise, my lord, should keep a measure; sweets are quick to surfeit. LACY: Lady, if I cannot win your favour, I am like to die of grief. LADY JOAN: Live, my lord, live, and now if it please you let us join the dancers. [_They turn off together; the dancing goes on with directions changing the galliard to the Coranto._] MISS FITTON: [_Looking after Lacy._] A curious jay. HERBERT: A soldier, scholar, traveller, all masked with this extravagance. MISS FITTON: Lady Joan may cure his distemper. HERBERT: Perhaps; but why did you refuse my kiss? Am I so hateful to you? MISS FITTON: No, no. HERBERT: Why then withhold so small and usual a favour?