and hang thy self for joy th' hadst such a Gentleman to be thy Son: O he has read such things to me!
Bri. And you do understand 'em, Brother?
Mir. I tell thee, No, that's not material; the sound's sufficient to confirm an honest man: Good Brother Brisac, does your young Courtier, that wears the fine Cloaths, and is the excellent Gentleman, (the Traveller, the Soldier, as you think too) understand any other power than his Tailor? or knows what motion is more than an Horse-race? What the Moon means, but to light him home from taverns? or the comfort of the Sun is, but to wear slash'd clothes in? And must this piece of ignorance be popt up, because 't can kiss the hand, and cry, sweet Lady? Say it had been at Rome, and seen the Reliques, drunk your Verdea Wine, and rid at Naples, brought home a Box of Venice Treacle with it, to cure young Wenches that have eaten Ashes: Must this thing therefore?—
Bri. Yes Sir, this thing must; I will not trust my Land to one so sotted, so grown like a Disease unto his Study; he that will fling off all occasions and cares, to make him understand what state is, and how to govern it, must, by that reason, be flung himself aside from managing. My younger Boy is a fine Gentleman.
Mir. He is an Ass, a piece of Ginger-bread, gilt over to please foolish Girls puppets.
Bri. You are my elder Brother.
Mir. So I had need, and have an elder Wit, thou'dst shame us all else. Go to, I say, Charles shall inherit.
Bri. I say, no, unless Charles had a Soul to understand it; can he manage six thousand Crowns a year out of the Metaphysics? or can all his learn'd Astronomy look to my Vineyards? Can the drunken old Poets make up my Vines? (I know they can drink 'em) or your excellent Humanists sell 'em the Merchants for my best advantage? Can History cut my Hay, or get my Corn in? And can Geometry vend it in the Market? Shall I have my sheep kept with a Jacobs-staff now? I wonder you will magnifie this madman, you that are old, and should understand.
Mir. Should, say'st thou? thou monstrous piece of ignorance in Office! thou that hast no more knowledge than thy Clerk infuses, thy dapper Clerk, larded with ends of Latin, and he no more than custom of offences. Thou unreprieveable Dunce! that thy formal Bandstrings, thy Ring, nor pomander cannot expiate for, dost thou tell me I should? I'le pose thy Worship in thine own Library and Almanack, which thou art daily poring on, to pick out days of iniquity to cozen fools in, and Full Moons to cut Cattle: dost thou taint me, that have run over Story, Poetry, Humanity?
Bri. As a cold nipping shadow does o'er ears of Corn, and leave 'em blasted, put up your anger, what I'll do, I'll do.
Mir. Thou shalt not do.
Bri. I will.
Mir. Thou art an Ass then, a dull old tedious Ass; th' art ten times worse, and of less credit than Dunce Hollingshead the Englishman, that writes of Shows and Sheriffs.
Enter Lewis.
Bri. Well, take your pleasure, here's one I must talk with.
Lew. Good-day, Sir.
Bri. Fair to you, Sir.
Lew. May I speak w'ye?
Bri. With all my heart, I was waiting on your goodness.
Lew. Good morrow, Monsieur Miramont.
Mir. O sweet Sir, keep your good morrow to cool your Worships pottage; a couple of the worlds fools met together to raise up dirt and dunghils.
Lew. Are they drawn?
Bri. They shall be ready, Sir, within these two hours; and Charles set his hand.
Lew. 'Tis necessary; for he being a joint purchaser, though your Estate was got by your own industry, unless he seal to the Conveyance, it can be of no validity.
Bri. He shall be ready and do it willingly.
Mir. He shall be hang'd first.
Bri. I hope your Daughter likes.
Lew. She loves him well, Sir; young Eustace is a bait to catch a Woman, a budding spritely Fellow; y'are resolv'd then, that all shall pass from Charles?
Bri. All, all, he's nothing; a bunch of Books shall be his Patrimony, and more than he can manage too.
Lew. Will your Brother pass over his Land to your son Eustace? you know he has no Heir.
Mir. He will be flead first, and Horse-collars made of's skin.
Bri. Let him alone, a wilful man; my Estate shall serve the turn, Sir. And how does your Daughter?
Lew. Ready for the hour, and like a blushing Rose that stays the pulling.
Bri. To morrow then's the day.
Lew. Why then to morrow I'll bring the Girl; get you the Writings ready.
Mir. But hark you, Monsieur, have you the virtuous conscience to help to rob an Heir, an Elder Brother, of that which Nature and the Law flings on him? You were your Father's eldest Son, I take it, and had his Land; would you had had his wit too, or his discretion, to consider nobly, what 'tis to deal unworthily in these things; you'll say he's none of yours, he's his Son; and he will say, he is no Son to inherit above a shelf of Books: Why did he get him? why was he brought up to write and read, and know these things? why was he not like his Father, a dumb Justice? a flat dull piece of phlegm, shap'd like a man, a reverend Idol in a piece of Arras? Can you lay disobedience, want of manners, or any capital crime to his charge?
Lew. I do not, nor do weigh your words, they bite not me, Sir; this man must answer.
Bri. I have don't already, and given sufficient reason to secure me: and so good morrow, Brother, to your patience.
Lew. Good morrow, Monsieur Miramont.
Mir. Good Night-caps keep brains warm, or Maggots will breed in 'em. Well, Charles, thou shalt not want to buy thee Books yet, the fairest in thy Study are my gift, and the University of Lovain, for thy sake, hath tasted of my bounty; and to vex the old doting Fool thy Father, and thy Brother, they shall not share a Solz of mine between them; nay more, I'll give thee eight thousand Crowns a year, in some high strain to write my Epitaph.
ACTUS II. SCENA II
Enter Eustace, Egremont, Cowsy.
Eust. How do I look now, my Elder Brother? Nay, 'tis a handsome Suit.
Cow. All Courtly, Courtly.
Eust. I'll assure ye, Gentlemen, my Tailor has travel'd, and speaks as lofty Language in his Bills too; the cover of an old Book would not shew thus. Fie, fie; what things these Academicks are! these Book-worms, how they look!
Egre. They're meer Images, no gentle motion or behaviour in 'em; they'll prattle ye of Primum Mobile, and tell a story of the state of Heaven, what Lords and Ladies govern in such Houses, and what wonders they do when they meet together, and how they spit Snow, Fire, and Hail, like a Jugler, and make a noise when they are drunk, which we call Thunder.
Cow.
