Eust.  These are but harsh words Uncle. Mir.  So I mean ’em.  Sir, you play harsher play w’ your elder brother.

Eust.  I would be loth to give you. Mi.  Do not venter, Ile make your wedding cloaths fit closer t’ee then; I but disturb you, lie go see my nephew: 

Lew.  Pray take a piece of rosemarie. Mir.  Ile wear it, But for the Ladies sake, and none of yours; May be Ile see your table too. Bri.  Pray do, Sir.

Ang.  A mad old Gentleman. Bri.  Yes faith sweet daughter, He has been thus his whole age to my knowledge, He has made Charles his heir, I know that certainly; Then why should he grudge Eustace any thing?

Ang.  I would not have a light head, nor one laden
With too much learning, as they say, this Charles is,
That makes his book his Mistress:  Sure, there’s something
Hid in this old mans anger, that declares him
Not a mere Sot. Bri.  Come shall we go and seal brother? 
All things are readie, and the [P]riest is here. 
When Charles has set his hand unto the Writings,
As he shall instantly, then to the Wedding,
And so to dinner. Lew.  Come, let’s seal the book first
For my daughters Jointure. Bri.  Let’s be private in’t Sir. Exeunt.

Actus III.  Scaena IV.

      Enter Charles, Miramont, Andrew.

Mir.  Nay, y’are undone. Cha. hum. Mira.  Ha’ ye no greater feeling?

And.  You were sensible of the great b[oo]ke, Sir,
When it fell on your head, and now the house
Is ready to fall, Do you feare nothing? Cha.  Will
He have my bookes too? Mir.  No, he has a book,
A faire one too to read on, and read wonders,
I would thou hadst her in thy studie Nephew,
And ’twere but to new string her. Cha.  Yes, I saw her,
And me though[t] ’twas a curious peece of learning,
Handsomely bound, and of a daintly letter.

And.  He flung away his booke. Mir.  I like that in him,
Would he had flung away his dulness too,
And speak to her. Cha.  And must my brother have all?

Mir.  All that your father has. Cha.  And that faire woman too?

Mir.  That woman also. Cha.  He has enough then
May I not see her somtimes, and call her Sister? 
I will doe him no wrong. Mir.  This makes me mad
I could now cry for anger; these old fooles
Are the most stubborn and the wilfullest Coxcombs—­
Farewil, and fall to your booke, forget your brother;
You are my heire, and Ile provide y’a wife;
Ile looke upon this marriage, though I hate it. Exit.

      Enter Brisac.

Where is my son? And.  There Sir, casting a figure
What chopping children his brother shall have.