_Bri_. You'l stay and dine though? _Mir_. All your meat smells mustie, Your table will shew nothing to content me. _Bri_. Ile answer you, here's good meat. _Mira_. But your sawce is scurvie; It is not season'd with the sharpness of discretion. _Eust_. It seems your anger is at me, dear Uncle. _Mir_. Thou art not worth my anger, th'art a boy, A lump o' thy fathers lightness, made of nothing But antick cloaths and cringes; look in thy head, And 'twill appear a footbal full of fumes And rotten smoke; Ladie, I pitie you; You are a handsome and a sweet young Ladie, And ought to have a handsome man yoak'd t'ye, An understanding too; this is a Gincrack, That ca[n] get nothing but new fashions on you; For say he have a thing shap'd like a child, 'Twill either prove a tumbler or a tailor. _Eust_. These are but harsh words Uncle. _Mir_. So I mean 'em. Sir, you play harsher play w' your elder brother. _Eust_. I would be loth to give you. _Mi_. Do not venter, Ile make your wedding cloaths fit closer t'ee then; I but disturb you, lie go see my nephew: _Lew_. Pray take a piece of rosemarie. _Mir_. Ile wear it, But for the Ladies sake, and none of yours; May be Ile see your table too. _Bri_. Pray do, Sir. _Ang_. A mad old Gentleman. _Bri_. Yes faith sweet daughter, He has been thus his whole age to my knowledge, He has made _Charles_ his heir, I know that certainly; Then why should he grudge _Eustace_ any thing? _Ang_. I would not have a light head, nor one laden With too much learning, as they say, this _Charles_ is, That makes his book his Mistress: Sure, there's something Hid in this old mans anger, that declares him Not a mere Sot. _Bri_. Come shall we go and seal brother? All things are readie, and the [P]riest is here. When _Charles_ has set his hand unto the Writings, As he shall instantly, then to the Wedding, And so to dinner. _Lew_. Come, let's seal the book first For my daughters Jointure. _Bri_. Let's be private in't Sir. _Exeunt_. _Actus III. Scaena IV_. _Enter_ Charles, Miramont, Andrew. _Mir_. Nay, y'are undone. _Cha_. hum. _Mira_. Ha' ye no greater feeling? _And_. You were sensible of the great b[oo]ke, Sir, When it fell on your head, and now the house Is ready to fall, Do you feare nothing? _Cha_. Will He have my bookes too? _Mir_. No, he has a book, A faire one too to read on, and read wonders, I would thou hadst her in thy studie Nephew, And 'twere but to new string her. _Cha_. Yes, I saw her, And me though[t] 'twas a curious peece of learning, Handsomely bound, and of a daintly letter. _And_. He flung away his booke. _Mir_. I like that in him, Would he had flung away his dulness too, And speak to her. _Cha_. And must my brother have all? _Mir_. All that your father has. _Cha_. And that faire woman too?