_Jer._ Pray let me see "St. George for Christendom," or, "The Seven Champions of England." _Wid._ No, no; give him "The Young Clerk's Guide."--What, we shall have you read yourself into a humour of rambling and fighting, and studying military discipline, and wearing red breeches. _Old._ Nay, if you talk of military discipline, show him my "Treatise of the Art Military." _Wid._ Hold; I would as willingly he should read a play. _Jer._ O, pray forsooth, mother, let me have a play. _Wid._ No, sirrah; there are young students of the law enough spoiled already by plays. They would make you in love with your laundress, or, what's worse, some queen of the stage that was a laundress; and so turn keeper before you are of age. [_Several cross the stage._] But stay, Jerry, is not that Mr. What d'ye-call-him, that goes there, he that offered to sell me a suit in chancery for five hundred pounds, for a hundred down, and only paying the clerk's fees? _Jer._ Ay, forsooth, 'tis he. _Wid._ Then stay here, and have a care of the bags, whilst I follow him.--Have a care of the bags, I say. _Jer._ And do you have a care, forsooth, of the statute against champarty,[113] I say. [_Exit_ Widow BLACKACRE. _Re-enter_ FREEMAN. _Free._ [_Aside._] So, there's a limb of my widow, which was wont to be inseparable from her: she can't be far.--[_Aloud._] How now, my pretty son-in-law that shall be, where's my widow? _Jer._ My mother, but not your widow, will be forthcoming presently. _Free._ Your servant, major. What, are you buying furniture for a little sleeping closet, which you miscall a study? For you do only by your books, as by your wenches, bind 'em up neatly and make 'em fine, for other people to use 'em. And your bookseller is properly your upholsterer, for he furnishes your room, rather than your head. _Old._ Well, well, good sea-lieutenant, study you your compass; that's more than your head can deal with.--[_Aside._] I will go find out the widow, to keep her out of his sight, or he'll board her, whilst I am treating a peace. [_Exit._ _Jer._ Nay, prithee, friend, now let me have but "The Seven Champions." You shall trust me no longer than till my mother's Mr. Splitcause comes; for I hope he'll lend me wherewithal to pay for't. _Free._ Lend thee! here, I'll pay him. Do you want money, squire? I'm sorry a man of your estate should want money. _Jer._ Nay, my mother will ne'er let me be at age: and till then, she says-- _Free._ At age! why you are at age already to have spent an estate, man. There are younger than you have kept their women these three years, have had half a dozen claps, and lost as many thousand pounds at play.