Syl.  I deserve a Fee, and not a frown, dear Madam:  I but speak her thoughts, my Lord, and what her modesty refuses to give voice to.  Shew no mercy to a Maidenhead of fourteen, but off with’t:  let her lose no time, Sir; Fathers that deny their Daughters lawful pleasures, when ripe for them, in some kinds edge their appetites to taste of the fruit that is forbidden.

Lew.  ’Tis well urg’d, and I approve it:  No more blushing, Girl, thy Woman hath spoke truth, and so prevented what I meant to move to thee.  There dwells near us a Gentleman of bloud, Monsieur Brisac, of a fair Estate, six thousand Crowns per annum, the happy Father of two hopeful Sons, of different breeding; the Elder, a meer Scholar; the younger, a quaint Courtier.

Ang.  Sir, I know them by publick fame, though yet I never saw them; and that oppos’d antipathy between their various dispositions, renders them the general discourse and argument; one part inclining to the Scholar Charles, the other side preferring Eustace, as a man compleat in Courtship.

Lew.  And which way (if of these two you were to chuse a Husband) doth your affection sway you?

Ang.  To be plain Sir, (since you will teach me boldness) as they are simply themselves, to neither:  let a Courtier be never so exact, let him be bless’d with all parts that yield him to a Virgin gracious; if he depend on others, and stand not on his own bottoms, though he have the means to bring his Mistris to a Masque, or by conveyance from some great ones lips, to taste such favour from the King:  or grant he purchase precedency in the Court, to be sworn a servant Extraordinary to the Queen; nay, though he live in expectation of some huge preferment in reversion; if he want a present fortune, at the best those are but glorious dreams, and only yield him a happiness in posse, not in esse; nor can they fetch him Silks from the Mercer, nor discharge a Tailors Bill, nor in full plenty (which still preserves a quiet Bed at home) maintain a Family.

Lew.  Aptly consider’d, and to my wish:  But what’s thy censure of the Scholar?

Ang. Troth (if he be nothing else) as of the Courtier, all his Songs and Sonnets, his Anagrams, Acrosticks, Epigrams, his deep and Philosophical Discourse of Nature’s hidden Secrets, makes not up a perfect Husband; he can hardly borrow the Stars of the Celestial Crown to make me a Tire for my Head, nor Charles’s Wain for a Coach, nor Ganymede for a Page, nor a rich Gown from Juno’s Wardrobe, nor would I lie in (for I despair not once to be a Mother) under Heaven’s spangled Canopy, or Banquet my Guests and Gossips with imagin’d Nectar; pure Orleans would do better:  No, no, Father, though I could be well pleas’d to have my Husband a Courtier, and a Scholar, young, and valiant; these are but gawdy nothings, if there be not something to make a substance.