Bri.  He do’s well; How do’st Charles? still at thy book?

And.  Hee’s studying now Sir, who shall be his father.

Bri.  Peace you rude Knave—­Come hither Charles be merry.

Cha.  I thank you, I am busie at my book, Sir.

Bri. You must put your hand my Charles, as I would have you
Unto a little peece of parchment here;
Onely your name, you write a reasonable hand.

Cha.  But I may do unreasonably to write it.  What is it Sir? Bri.  To passe the Land I have, Sir, Unto your younger brother. Cha.  Is’t no more?

Bri.  No, no, ’tis nothing; you shall be provided for,
And new bookes you shall have still, and new studies,
And have your meanes brought in without thy care boy,
And one still to attend you. Cha.  This shewes your love father.

Bri.  I’m tender to you. And.  Like a stone, I take it.

Cha.  Why father, Ile go downe, an’t please you let me,
Because Ide see the thing they call the Gentlewoman,
I see no woman but through contemplation,
And there Ile doe’t before the company,
And wish my brother fortune. Bri.  Doe I prithee.

Cha.  I must not stay, for I have things above
Require my study. Bri.  No, thou shalt not stay,
Thou shalt have a brave dinner too. And.  Now has he
Orethrowne himselfe for ever; I will down
Into the Celler, and be stark drunk for anger. Exeunt.

Actus III.  Scaena V.

Enter Lewis, Angellina, Eustace, Priest, Ladies, Cowsy,
Notary, Miramont.

Not.  Come let him bring his sons hand, and all’s done.  Is yours ready? Pr.  Yes Ile dispatch ye presently, Immediately for in truth I am a hungry.

Eust.  Doe speak apace, for we believe exactly
Doe not we stay long Mistris? Ang.  I find no fault,
Better things well done than want time to doe them. 
Uncle, why are you sad? Mir.  Sweet smelling blossome,
Would I were thine Uncle to thine owne content,
Ide make thy husbands state a thousand, better
A yearlie thousand, thou hast mist a man,
(But that he is addicted to his studie,
And knowes no other Mistresse than his minde)
Would weigh down bundles of these emptie kexes.

Ang.  Can he speak, Sir? Mir.  Faith yes, but not to women:  His language is to heaven, and heavenlie wonder, To Nature, and her dark and secret causes.

Ang.  And does he speak well there? Mir.  O, admirably;
But hee’s to bashful too behold a woman,
There’s none that sees him, nor he troubles none.

Ang.  He is a man. Mir.  Faith Yes, and a cleare sweet spirit.

Ang.  Then conversation me thinkes—­ Mir.  So think I But it is his rugged fate, and so I leave you.