Lew. And what is that?

Ang. A full Estate, and that said, I’ve said all; and get me such a one with these Additions, farwel Virginity, and welcome Wedlock.

Lew. But where is such a one to be met with, Daughter?  A black Swan is more common; you may wear grey Tresses e’re we find him.

Ang. I am not so punctual in all Ceremonies, I will ’bate two or three of these good parts, before I’le dwell too long upon the choice.

Syl. Only, my Lord, remember, that he be rich and active, for without these, the others yield no relish, but these perfect.  You must bear with small faults, Madam.

Lew. Merry Wench, and it becomes you well; I’le to Brisac, and try what may be done; i’th’ mean time home, and feast thy thoughts with th’pleasures of a Bride.

Syl. Thoughts are but airy food, Sir, let her taste them.

ACTUS I. SCENA II.

Enter Andrew, Cook, and Butler.

And. Unload part of the Library, and make room for th’other dozen of Carts; I’le straight be with you.

Cook. Why, hath he more Books?

And. More than ten Marts send over.

But. And can he tell their names?

And. Their names! he has ’em as perfect as his Pater Noster; but that’s nothing, h’as read them over leaf by leaf three thousand times; but here’s the wonder, though their weight would sink a Spanish Carrock, without other Ballast, he carrieth them all in his head, and yet he walks upright.

But. Surely he has a strong brain.

And. If all thy pipes of Wine were fill’d with Books, made of the Barks of Trees, or Mysteries writ in old moth-eaten Vellam, he would sip thy Cellar quite dry, and still be thirsty:  Then for’s Diet, he eats and digests more Volumes at a meal, than there would be Larks (though the Sky should fall) devoured in a month in Paris.  Yet fear not Sons o’the Buttery and Kitchin, though his learn’d stomach cannot be appeas’d; he’ll seldom trouble you, his knowing stomach contemns your Black-jacks, Butler, and your Flagons; and Cook, thy Boil’d, thy Rost, thy Bak’d.

Cook. How liveth he?

And. Not as other men do, few Princes fare like him; he breaks his fast with Aristotle, dines with Tully, takes his watering with the Muses, sups with Livy, then walks a turn or two in Via Lactea, and (after six hours conference with the Stars) sleeps with old Erra Pater.

But. This is admirable.

And. I’le tell you more hereafter.  Here’s my old Master, and another old ignorant Elder; I’le upon ’em.

Enter Brisac, Lewis.

Bri. What, Andrew? welcome; where’s my Charles? speak, Andrew, where did’st thou leave thy Master?