And.  Your Brother’s married this day, he’s married, Your younger brother Eustace. Cha.  What of that?

And.  And all the friends about are bidden hither.  There’s not a dog that knowes the house but comes too.

Cha.  Married? to whom? And.  Why to a dainty Gentlewoman, Young, sweet, and modest. Cha.  Are there modest women?  How do they look? And.  O you’ld blesse your self to see them.  He parts with’s book, he nere did so before yet.

Cha.  What do’s my father for ’m? And.  Gives all his Land, And makes your brother Heir. Cha.  Must I have nothing?

And.  Yes, you must study still, and he’l maintain you.

Cha.  I am his eldest brother. And.  True, you were so, But he has leapd ore your shoulders, Sir. Cha.  ’Tis wel, He’l not inherit my understanding too?

And.  I think not, he’l scarce find tenants to let it Out to. Cha.  Hark, hark. Andr.  The Coach that brings the fair Lady.

      Enter Lewis, Angellina, Ladies, Notary, &c.

And.  Now you may see her. Cha.  Sure this should be modest; But I do not truly know what women make of it, Andrew; She has a face looks like a story, The storie of the Heavens looks very like her.

And.  She has a wide face then. Cha.  She has a Cheiubins, Cover’d and vail’d with modest blushes. Eustace be happy, whiles poor Charles is patient.  Get me my book again, and come in with me—­ Exeunt.

      Enter Brisac, Eustace, Egremont, Cowsy, Miramont.

Bri.  Welcome sweet Daughter, welcome noble Brother, And you are welcome Sir, with all your writings, Ladies most welcome; What? my angry brother!  You must be welcome too, the Feast is flat else.

Mir.  I am not come for your welcome, I expect none;
I bring no joyes to blesse the bed withal;
Nor songs, nor Masques to glorifie the Nuptials,
I bring an angrie mind to see your folly,
A sharp one too, to reprehend you for it.

Bri.  You’l stay and dine though? Mir.  All your meat smells mustie, Your table will shew nothing to content me.

Bri.  Ile answer you, here’s good meat. Mira.  But your sawce is scurvie; It is not season’d with the sharpness of discretion.

Eust.  It seems your anger is at me, dear Uncle.

Mir.  Thou art not worth my anger, th’art a boy,
A lump o’ thy fathers lightness, made of nothing
But antick cloaths and cringes; look in thy head,
And ’twill appear a footbal full of fumes
And rotten smoke; Ladie, I pitie you;
You are a handsome and a sweet young Ladie,
And ought to have a handsome man yoak’d t’ye,
An understanding too; this is a Gincrack,
That ca[n] get nothing but new fashions on you;
For say he have a thing shap’d like a child,
’Twill either prove a tumbler or a tailor.