_Mir_. That woman also. _Cha_. He has enough then May I not see her somtimes, and call her Sister? I will doe him no wrong. _Mir_. This makes me mad I could now cry for anger; these old fooles Are the most stubborn and the wilfullest Coxcombs-- Farewil, and fall to your booke, forget your brother; You are my heire, and Ile provide y'a wife; Ile looke upon this marriage, though I hate it. _Exit_. _Enter_ Brisac. Where is my son? _And_. There Sir, casting a figure What chopping children his brother shall have. _Bri_. He do's well; How do'st _Charles_? still at thy book? _And_. Hee's studying now Sir, who shall be his father. _Bri_. Peace you rude Knave--Come hither _Charles_ be merry. _Cha_. I thank you, I am busie at my book, Sir. _Bri._ You must put your hand my _Charles_, as I would have you Unto a little peece of parchment here; Onely your name, you write a reasonable hand. _Cha_. But I may do unreasonably to write it. What is it Sir? _Bri_. To passe the Land I have, Sir, Unto your younger brother. _Cha_. Is't no more? _Bri_. No, no, 'tis nothing; you shall be provided for, And new bookes you shall have still, and new studies, And have your meanes brought in without thy care boy, And one still to attend you. _Cha_. This shewes your love father. _Bri_. I'm tender to you. _And_. Like a stone, I take it. _Cha_. Why father, Ile go downe, an't please you let me, Because Ide see the thing they call the Gentlewoman, I see no woman but through contemplation, And there Ile doe't before the company, And wish my brother fortune. _Bri_. Doe I prithee. _Cha_. I must not stay, for I have things above Require my study. _Bri_. No, thou shalt not stay, Thou shalt have a brave dinner too. _And_. Now has he Orethrowne himselfe for ever; I will down Into the Celler, and be stark drunk for anger. _Exeunt_. _Actus III. Scaena V._ _Enter_ Lewis, Angellina, Eustace, _Priest, Ladies_, Cowsy, _Notary_, Miramont. _Not_. Come let him bring his sons hand, and all's done. Is yours ready? _Pr_. Yes Ile dispatch ye presently, Immediately for in truth I am a hungry. _Eust_. Doe speak apace, for we believe exactly Doe not we stay long Mistris? _Ang_. I find no fault, Better things well done than want time to doe them. Uncle, why are you sad? _Mir_. Sweet smelling blossome, Would I were thine Uncle to thine owne content, Ide make thy husbands state a thousand, better A yearlie thousand, thou hast mist a man, (But that he is addicted to his studie, And knowes no other Mistresse than his minde) Would weigh down bundles of these emptie kexes. _Ang_. Can he speak, Sir? _Mir_. Faith yes, but not to women: His language is to heaven, and heavenlie wonder, To Nature, and her dark and secret causes. _Ang_. And does he speak well there? _Mir_. O, admirably; But hee's to bashful too behold a woman, There's none that sees him, nor he troubles none. _Ang_. He is a man. _Mir_. Faith Yes, and a cleare sweet spirit.