Eust. Will you write, Brother?

Char. No, Brother, no; I have no time for poor things, I’m taking the height of that bright Constellation.

Bri. I say you trifle time, Son.

Char. I will not seal, Sir; I am your Eldest, and I’ll keep my Birth-right, for Heaven forbid I should become example:  Had y’only shew’d me Land, I had deliver’d it, and been a proud man to have parted with it; ’tis dirt, and labour.  Do I speak right, Uncle?

Mir. Bravely, my Boy, and bless thy tongue.

Char. I’ll forward:  but you have open’d to me such a treasure, I find my mind free; Heaven direct my fortune.

Mir. Can he speak now?  Is this a son to sacrifice?

Char. Such an inimitable piece of Beauty, that I have studied long, and now found only, that I’ll part sooner with my soul of Reason, and be a Plant, a Beast, a Fish, a Flie, and only make the number of things up, than yield to one foot of Land, if she be ti’d to’t.

Lew. He speaks unhappily.

Ang. And methinks bravely.  This the meer Scholar?

Eust. You but vex your self, Brother, and vex your study too.

Char. Go you and study, for ’tis time, young Eustace; you want both man and manners; I’ve study’d both, although I made no shew on’t.  Go turn the Volumes over I have read, eat and digest them, that they may grow in thee; wear out the tedious night with thy dim Lamp, and sooner lose the day, than leave a doubt.  Distil the sweetness from the Poets Spring, and learn to love; thou know’st not what fair is:  Traverse the stories of the great Heroes, the wise and civil lives of good men walk through; thou hast seen nothing but the face of Countrys, and brought home nothing but their empty words:  why shouldst thou wear a Jewel of this worth, that hast no worth within thee to preserve her?

  Beauty clear and fair,
      Where the Air
  Rather like a perfume dwells,
    Where the Violet and the Rose
    The blew Veins in blush disclose,
  And come to honour nothing else.

  Where to live near,
      And planted there,
  Is to live, and still live new;
    Where to gain a favour is
    More than light, perpetual bliss,
  Make me live by serving you.

  Dear again back recall
      To this light,
  A stranger to himself and all;
    Both the wonder and the story
    Shall be yours, and eke the glory;
  I am your servant and your thrall._

Mir. Speak such another Ode, and take all yet.  What say ye to the Scholar now?

Ang. I wonder; is he your Brother, Sir?

Eust. Yes, would he were buried; I fear he’ll make an Ass of me a younger.

Ang. Speak not so softly, Sir, ’tis very likely.

Bri. Come, leave your finical talk, and let’s dispatch, Charles.