Ang. Nor you[r] long travailes, not your little knowledge,
Can make me doate upon you.  Faith goe studie,
And gleane some goodness, that you may shew manlie;
Your Brother at my suit Ime sure will teach you;
Or onely studie how to get a wife Sir,
Y’are cast far behind, tis good you should be melancholie,
It shewes like a Gamester that had lost his money,
And t’is the fashon to weare your arme in a skarfe Sir,
For you have had a shrewd cut ore the fingers.

Lew. But are y’ in earnest? Ang. Yes, beleeve me father,
You shall nere choose for me, y’are old and dim Sir,
And th’ shaddow of the earth ecclips’d your judgement,
Y’have had your time without controwle deare father,
And you must give me leave to take mine now Sir.

Bri. This is the last time of asking, Will you set your hand to?

Cha. This is the last time of answering, I will never.

Bris. Out of my doores. Char. Most willingly. Miram. He shall Jew, Thou of the Tribe of Man-y-asses Coxcombe, And never trouble thee more till thy chops be cold foole.

Ang. Must I be gone too? Lew. I will never know thee.

Ang. Then this man will; what fortune he shall run, father, Bee’t good or bad, I must partake it with him.

    Enter Egremont.

When shall the Masque begins? Eust. Tis done alreadie,
All, all, is broken off, I am undone friend,
My brother’s wise againe, and has spoil’d all,
Will not release the land, has wone the Wench too.

Egre. Could he not stay till th’ Masque was past?  W’are ready. 
What a skirvie trick’s this? Mir. O you may vanish,
Performe it at some Hall, where the Citizens wives
May see’t for six pence a peece, and a cold supper. 
Come let’s goe Charles; And now my noble Daughter,
Ile sell the tiles of my house ere thou shall want Wench. 
Rate up your dinner Sir, and sell it cheape,
Some younger brother will take ’t up in commodities. 
Send you joy, Nephew Eustace, if you studie the Law,
Keep your great pippin-pies, they’l goe far with ye.

Cha. Ide have your blessing. Bri. No, no, meet me no more, Farewell, thou wilt blast mine eyes else. Cha. I will not.

Lew. Nor send not you for Gownes. Ang. Ile weare course flannel first.

Bri. Come let’s goe take some counsel. Lew. Tis too late.

Bri. Then stay and dine, It may be we shall vexe ’em. Exeunt.

Actus 4.  Scaena 1.

      Enter Brisac, Eustace, Egremont, Cowsy.

Nere talke to me, you are no men but Masquers,
Shapes, shadowes, and the signes of men, Court bubbles,
That every breath or breakes or blowes away,
You have no soules, no metal in your bloods,
No heat to stir ye when ye have occasion,
Frozen dull things that must be turn’d with leavers;
Are you the Courtiers and the travail’d Gallants? 
The spritely fellowes, that the people talk of? 
Ye have no more Spirit than three sleepy sops.