Reignald. I still remember Your father was no grazier; if he were, This were a way to eat up all his fields, Hedges and all. Young Lionel. You will begone, sir? Reignald. Yes, and you are i’ the way going. [_Exit_. Young Lionel. To what may young men best compare themselves? Better to what, than to a house new built, The fabric strong, the chambers well contrived, Polished within, without well beautified; When all that gaze upon the edifice Do not alone commend the workman’s craft, But either make it their fair precedent By which to build another, or at least Wish there to inhabit? Being set to sale, In comes a slothful tenant, with a family As lazy and debauched; rough tempests rise, Untile the roof, which by their idleness Left unrepaired, the stormy showers beat in, Rot the main posts and rafters, spoil the rooms, Deface the ceilings, and in little space Bring it to utter ruin, yet the fault Not in the architector that first reared it, But him that should repair it. So it fares With us young men; we are those houses made; Our parents raise these structures, the foundation Laid in our infancy; and as we grow In years, they strive to build us by degrees, Story on story higher; up at height, They cover us with counsel, to defend us From storms without; they polish us within With learnings, knowledge, arts and disciplines; All that is naught and vicious they sweep from us, Like dust and cobwebs, and our rooms concealed, Hang with the costliest hangings, ’bout the walls Emblems and beauteous symbols pictured round: But when that lazy tenant, Love, steps in, And in his train brings sloth and negligence, Lust, disobedience, and profuse excess, The thrift with which our fathers tiled our roofs Submits to every storm and winter’s blast, And, yielding place to every riotous sin, Gives way without to ruin what’s within: Such is the state I stand in. _Enter_ Blanda _and_ Scapha; Young Lionel _retires_. Blanda. And how doth this tire become me? Scapha. Rather ask, how your sweet carriage and court behaviour doth best grace you, for lovers regard not so much the outward habit as that which the garment covers. Young Lionel. Oh, here’s that hail, shower, tempest, storm, and gust That shattered hath this building; let in lust, Intemperance, appetite to vice; withal, Neglect of every goodness: thus I see How I am sinking in mine own disease, Yet can I not abide it. [_Aside_. Blanda. And how this gown? I prithee view me well, And speak with thy best judgment. Scapha. What do you talk of gowns and ornaments, That have a beauty precious in itself, And becomes anything? Young Lionel. Let me not live, but she speaks nought but truth, And I’ll for that reward her. [_Aside_.