Mir. But hark you, Monsieur, have you the virtuous conscience to help to rob an Heir, an Elder Brother, of that which Nature and the Law flings on him?  You were your Father’s eldest Son, I take it, and had his Land; would you had had his wit too, or his discretion, to consider nobly, what ’tis to deal unworthily in these things; you’ll say he’s none of yours, he’s his Son; and he will say, he is no Son to inherit above a shelf of Books:  Why did he get him? why was he brought up to write and read, and know these things? why was he not like his Father, a dumb Justice? a flat dull piece of phlegm, shap’d like a man, a reverend Idol in a piece of Arras?  Can you lay disobedience, want of manners, or any capital crime to his charge?

Lew. I do not, nor do weigh your words, they bite not me, Sir; this man must answer.

Bri. I have don’t already, and given sufficient reason to secure me:  and so good morrow, Brother, to your patience.

Lew. Good morrow, Monsieur Miramont.

Mir. Good Night-caps keep brains warm, or Maggots will breed in ’em.  Well, Charles, thou shalt not want to buy thee Books yet, the fairest in thy Study are my gift, and the University of Lovain, for thy sake, hath tasted of my bounty; and to vex the old doting Fool thy Father, and thy Brother, they shall not share a Solz of mine between them; nay more, I’ll give thee eight thousand Crowns a year, in some high strain to write my Epitaph.

ACTUS II.  SCENA II.

Enter Eustace, Egremont, Cowsy.

Eust. How do I look now, my Elder Brother?  Nay, ’tis a handsome Suit.

Cow. All Courtly, Courtly.

Eust. I’ll assure ye, Gentlemen, my Tailor has travel’d, and speaks as lofty Language in his Bills too; the cover of an old Book would not shew thus.  Fie, fie; what things these Academicks are! these Book-worms, how they look!

Egre. They’re meer Images, no gentle motion or behaviour in ’em; they’ll prattle ye of Primum Mobile, and tell a story of the state of Heaven, what Lords and Ladies govern in such Houses, and what wonders they do when they meet together, and how they spit Snow, Fire, and Hail, like a Jugler, and make a noise when they are drunk, which we call Thunder.

Cow. They are the sneaking’st things, and the contemptiblest; such Small-beer brains, but ask ’em any thing out of the Element of their understanding, and they stand gaping like a roasted Pig:  do they know what a Court is, or a Council, or how the affairs of Christendom are manag’d?  Do they know any thing but a tired Hackney? and they cry absurd as the Horse understood ’em.  They have made a fair Youth of your Elder Brother, a pretty piece of flesh!

Eust. I thank ’em for’t, long may he study to give me his Estate.  Saw you my Mistris?