_Syl._ Only, my Lord, remember, that he be rich and active, for without these, the others yield no relish, but these perfect. You must bear with small faults, Madam. _Lew._ Merry Wench, and it becomes you well; I'le to _Brisac_, and try what may be done; i'th' mean time home, and feast thy thoughts with th'pleasures of a Bride. _Syl._ Thoughts are but airy food, Sir, let her taste them. ACTUS I. SCENA II. _Enter_ Andrew, Cook, _and_ Butler. _And._ Unload part of the Library, and make room for th'other dozen of Carts; I'le straight be with you. _Cook._ Why, hath he more Books? _And._ More than ten Marts send over. _But._ And can he tell their names? _And._ Their names! he has 'em as perfect as his _Pater Noster_; but that's nothing, h'as read them over leaf by leaf three thousand times; but here's the wonder, though their weight would sink a Spanish Carrock, without other Ballast, he carrieth them all in his head, and yet he walks upright. _But._ Surely he has a strong brain. _And._ If all thy pipes of Wine were fill'd with Books, made of the Barks of Trees, or Mysteries writ in old moth-eaten Vellam, he would sip thy Cellar quite dry, and still be thirsty: Then for's Diet, he eats and digests more Volumes at a meal, than there would be Larks (though the Sky should fall) devoured in a month in _Paris_. Yet fear not Sons o'the Buttery and Kitchin, though his learn'd stomach cannot be appeas'd; he'll seldom trouble you, his knowing stomach contemns your Black-jacks, _Butler_, and your Flagons; and _Cook_, thy Boil'd, thy Rost, thy Bak'd. _Cook._ How liveth he? _And._ Not as other men do, few Princes fare like him; he breaks his fast with _Aristotle_, dines with _Tully_, takes his watering with the _Muses_, sups with _Livy_, then walks a turn or two in _Via Lactea_, and (after six hours conference with the Stars) sleeps with old _Erra Pater_. _But._ This is admirable. _And._ I'le tell you more hereafter. Here's my old Master, and another old ignorant Elder; I'le upon 'em. _Enter_ Brisac, Lewis. _Bri._ What, _Andrew_? welcome; where's my _Charles_? speak, _Andrew_, where did'st thou leave thy Master? _And._ Contemplating the number of the Sands in the Highway, and from that, purposes to make a Judgment of the remainder in the Sea: he is, Sir, in serious study, and will lose no minute, nor out of's pace to knowledge. _Lew._ This is strange. _And._ Yet he hath sent his duty, Sir, before him in this fair Manuscript. _Bri._ What have we here? Pot-hooks and Andirons! _And._ I much pity you, it is the Syrian Character, or the Arabick. Would you have it said, so great and deep a Scholar as Mr _Charles_ is, should ask blessing in any Christian Language? Were it Greek I could interpret for you, but indeed I'm gone no farther. _Bri._ And in Greek you can lie with your smug Wife _Lilly_.