As of the Courtier; all his Songs, and Sonnets,
His Anagrams, Acrosticks, Epigrammes,
His deep and Philosophical discourse
Of natures hidden secrets, makes not up
A perfect husband; He can hardly borrow
The Starres of the Celestial crown to make me
A tire for my head; nor Charles Waine for a Coach,
Nor Ganymede for a Page, nor a rich Gowne
From Juno’s Wardrob, nor would I lye in
(For I despaire not once to be a mother)
Under heavens spangled Canopy, or banquet
My guests and Gossips with imagin’d Nectar;
Pure Orleans would doe better; no, no, father,
Though I could be well pleas’d to have my husband
A Courtier, and a Schollar, young, and valiant,
These are but gawdy nothings, if there be not
Something to make a substance. 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, Farewell Virginity, and welcome wedlock.

Lew.  But where is such one to be met with Daughter? 
A black Swan is more common, you may weare
Grey tresses ere we find him. Ang.  I am not
So punctual in all ceremonies, I will bate
Two or three of these good parts, before Ile dwell
Too long upon the choice. Syl.  Onely, my Lord, remember
That he be rich and active, for without these
The others yeeld no relish, but these perfect;
You must bear with small faults, Madam. Lew.  Merry Wench,
And it becomes you well; Ile to Brisac,
And try what may be done; ith’ mean time, home,
And feast thy thoughts with th’ pleasures of a Bride.

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

Actus I. Scena II.

      Andrew, Cooke, Butler.

Unload part of the Library, and make roome
For th’ other dozen of Carts, Ile straight be with you.

Co.  Why hath he more bookes? 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,
’Has red them over leaf by leaf three thousand times;
But here’s the wonder, though their weight would sink
A Spanish Carrack, without other ballast,
He carryeth them all in his head, and yet
He walkes upright. But.  Surely he has a strong braine.

And.  If all thy pipes of wine were fill’d with bookes
Made of the barkes of trees, or mysteries writ
In old moth-eaten vellam, he would sip thy Celler
Quite dry, and still be thirsty; Then for’s Diet,
He eats and digests more Volumes at a meal,
Than there would be Larkes (though the sky should fall)
Devowred in a moneth in Paris, yet feare not
Sons oth’ buttry, and kitchin, though his learn’d stomack
Cannot b’ appeas’d; Hee’ll seldom trouble you,
His knowing stomack contemnes your blacke Jacks, Butler,
And your Flagons; and Cook thy boyl’d, thy roast, thy bak’d.