_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.