_But._ Certain, a learned _Andrew_. _And._ I've so much on't And am so loaden with strong understanding, I fear, they'l run me mad, here's a new instrument, A metamatical glister to purge the Moon with, When she is laden with cold flegmatick humours, And here's another to remove the Stars, When they grow too thick in the Firmament. _Co._ O heavens! why do I labour out my life In a beef-pot? and only search the secrets Of a Sallad; and know no farther! _And._ They are not Reveal'd to all heads; These are far above Your Element of Fire. _Cooke._ I could tell you Of _Archimides_ glass to fire your coals with, And of the Philosophers turf that nere goes out; And _Gilbert Butler_, I could ravish thee, With two rare inventions. _But._ What are they _Andrew_? _And._ The one to blanch your bread from chippings base, And in a moment, as thou wouldst an Almond, The Sect of the Epicureans invented that; The other for thy trenches, that's a strong one, To cleanse you twenty dozen in a minute, And no noise heard, which is the wonder _Gilbert_, And this was out of _Plato's_ new _Idea's_. _But._ Why, what a learned Master do'st thou serve _Andrew_? _And._ These are but the scrapings of his understanding, _Gilbert_; With gods and goddesses, and such strange people He deals, and treats with in so plain a fashion, As thou do'st with thy boy that drawes thy drink, Or _Ralph_ there with his kitchin boyes and scalders. _Coo._ But why should he not be familiar and talk sometimes, As other Christians do, of hearty matters, And come into the Kitchin, and there cut his breakfast? _But._ And then retyre to the Buttry and there eat it, And drink a lusty bowle to my younger Master That must be now the heir will do all these, I and be drunk too; These are mortal things. _And._ My Master studies immortality. _Coo._ Now thou talk'st Of immortality, how do's thy wife _Andrew_? My old Master Did you no small pleasure when he procur'd her And stock'd you in a farme. If he should love her now, As he hath a Colts tooth yet, what sayes your learning And your strange instruments to that my _Andrew_? Can any of your learned Clerks avoid it? Can ye put by his Mathematical Engine? _And._ Yes, or Ile break it; thou awaken'st me, And Ile peep ith' Moon this moneth but Ile watch for him. My Master rings, I must go make him a fire, And conjure ore his books. _Coo_. Adieu good _Andrew_, And send thee manly patience with thy learning. _Exeu_. _Actus II. Scaena IV._ Charles.