_Fr._ Madam with your pardon, you have practisd Another dialect then was taught me when I was commended to your care and breeding, I understand not this, Latine or Greeke Are more familiar to my apprehension, Logicke was not so hard in my first lectures As your strange language. _Are._ Some strong waters, oh! _Lit._ Comfits will be as comfortable to your stomacke Madam. _Are._ I feare hee's spoild forever, he did name Logicke, and may for ought I know be gone So farre to understand it, I did alwayes Suspect they would corrupt him in the Colledge, Will your Greeke sawes and sentences discharge The Mercer, or is Latin a fit language To court a mistresse in? Mr. _Alexander_ If you have any charitie, let me Commend him to your breeding, I suspect I must employ my Doctor first, to purge The Vniversitie that lies in's head It alters his complexion. _Alex._ If you dare Trust me to serve him. _Are._ Mr. _Littleworth_ Be you joynd in commission. _Lit._ I will teach him Postures and rudiments. _Are._ I have no patience To see him in this shape, it turnes my stomacke, When he has cast his Academicke skinne He shall be yours, I am bound in conscience To see him bred, his owne state shall maintaine The change, while hees my Ward, come hither sir. _Fr._ What does my Aunt meane to doe with me? _St._ To make you a fine gentleman, and translate you Out of your learned language sir, into The present Goth and Vandall, which is French. _Bo._ Into what mischiefe wilt this humour ebbe? Shee will undo the boy, I see him ruind, My patience is not manly, but I must Vse stratagem to reduce her, open wayes Give me no hope. _Exit._ _St._ You shall be obey'd Madam. _Exeunt._ _Fr._ Mr. _Steward_, are you sure we doe not dreame? Was't not my Aunt you talkt to. _St._ One that loves you Deare as her life, these cloathes doe not become you, You must have better sir. _Fr._ These are not old. _St._ More sutable to the towne and time, we keepe No Lent here, nor is't my Ladies pleasure you Should fast from any thing you have a minde to, Vnlesse it be your learning, which she would have you Forget with all convenient speed that may be, For the credit of your noble family. The case is alter'd since we liv'd i'th country, We doe not invite the poore o'th parish To dinner, keepe a table for the tenants, Our kitchen does not smell of beefe, the sellar Defies the price of malt and hops, the footmen And coachdrivers may be drunke like gentlemen With wine, nor will three Fidlers upon holidayes With aid of Bagge pipes, that cald in the countrey To dance, and plough the hall up with their hobnailes, Now make my Lady merry, wee doe feed Like princes, and feast nothing but princes, And are these robes fit to be seene amongst em.