_1 Gent._ Your Brother, Sir: Bear witness heaven, this man destroys his Brother When he may save him, his least breath may save him: Can there be wilfuller destruction? He was forc'd to take a most unmanly wrong, Above the suff'ring virtue of a Soldier, Has kill'd his injurer, a work of honor; For which, unless you save him, he dies speedily My conscience is discharg'd, I'm but a friend, A Brother should go forward where I end. [_Exit._ _Sham._ Dyes? Say he be naught, that's nothing to my goodness, Which ought to shine through use, or else it loses The glorious name 'tis known by: he's my brother; Yet peace is above bloud: Let him go; I, But where's the nobleness of affection then? That must be car'd for too, or I'm imperfect, The same bloud that stood up in wrath against him, Now in his misery, runs all to pity; I'd rather dye than speak one syllable To save my self, but living as I am, There's no avoiding on't, the worlds humanity Expects it hourly from me: curse of fortune, I took my leave so well too: Let him dye, 'Tis but a brother lost; so pleasingly, And swiftly I came off, 'twere more than irksomness, To tread that path agen; and I shall never Depart so handsomely: but then where's posterity? The consummation of our house and name? I'm torn in pieces betwixt love and shame. [_Exit._ _Scæna Tertia._ _Enter_ Lapet, Clown, Poultrot, Moulbazon, _and_ _others, the new Court Officers_. _Lap._ Good morrow fellow _Poltrot_, and _Moulbazon_, Good morrow fellows all. _Pol._ Monsieur _Lapet_? _Lap._ Look, I've remembred you, here's books apiece for you. _Moul._ Oh Sir, we dearly thank you. _Lap._ So you may: There's two impressions gone already, Sirs. _Pol._ What no? in so short a time? _Lap._ 'Tis as I tell you, Sir. My Kick sells gallantly, I thank my stars. _Clow._ So does your Table; you may thank the Moon too. _Lap._ 'Tis the Book sells the Table. _Clow._ But 'tis the Bookseller That has the money for 'em, I'm sure o' that. _Lap._ 'Twill much enrich the Company of Stationers, 'Tis thought 'twill prove a lasting benefit, Like the _Wise Masters_, and the _Almanacks_, The hundred _Novels_, and the Book of _Cookery_, For they begin already to engross it, And make it a Stock-book, thinking indeed 'Twill prove too great a benefit, and help, For one that's new set up: they know their way, And make him Warden, e'r his beard be gray. _Moul._ Is't possible such virtue should lye hid, And in so little Paper?