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He pays a fine court, your De Guiche!

Faugh!… Another Gascon!

Ay, but the cold, supple Gascon—that is the stuff success is made of! Believe me, we were best make our bow to him.

What fine ribbons! How call you the colour, Count de Guiche? Kiss me, my darling, or Timid Fawn?

'Tis the colour called Sick Spaniard.

'Faith! The colour speaks truth, for, thanks to your valour, things will soon go ill for Spain in Flanders.