Char. Dispatch, what?

Bri. Why the Land.

Char. You are deceiv’d, Sir.  Now I perceive what ’tis that wooes a woman, and what maintains her when she’s woo’d:  I’ll stop here.  A wilful poverty ne’er made a Beauty, nor want of means maintain’d it vertuously:  though land and moneys be no happiness, yet they are counted good additions.  That use I’ll make; he that neglects a blessing, though he want a present knowledge how to use it, neglects himself.  May be I have done you wrong, Lady, whose love and hope went hand in hand together; may be my Brother, that has long expected the happy hour, and bless’d my ignorance; pray give me leave, Sir, I shall clear all doubts; why did they shew me you? pray tell me that?

(Mir. He’ll talk thee into a pension for thy knavery.)

Char. You, happy you, why did you break unto me?  The Rosie sugred morn ne’er broke so sweetly:  I am a man, and have desires within me, affections too, though they were drown’d a while, and lay dead, till the Spring of beauty rais’d them; till I saw those eyes, I was but a lump, a chaos of confusedness dwelt in me; then from those eyes shot Love, and he distinguish’d, and into form he drew my faculties; and now I know my Land, and now I love too.

Bri. We had best remove the Maid.

Char. It is too late, Sir.  I have her figure here.  Nay frown not, Eustace, there are less worthy Souls for younger Brothers; this is no form of Silk, but Sanctity, which wild lascivious hearts can never dignifie.  Remove her where you will, I walk along still, for, like the light, we make no separation; you may sooner part the Billows of the Sea and put a barr betwixt their fellowships, than blot out my remembrance; sooner shut old Time into a Den, and stay his motion, wash off the swift hours from his downy wings, or steal Eternity to stop his glass, than shut the sweet Idea I have in me.  Room for an Elder Brother, pray give place, Sir.

Mir. H’as studied duel too; take heed, he’ll beat thee.  H’as frighted the old Justice into a Feaver; I hope he’ll disinherit him too for an Ass; for though he be grave with years, he’s a great Baby.

Char. Do not you think me mad?

Ang. No certain, Sir, I have heard nothing from you but things excellent.

Char. You look upon my cloaths, and laugh at me, my scurvy cloaths!

Ang. They have rich linings, Sir.  I would your Brother—­

Char. His are gold and gawdie.

Ang. But touch ’em inwardly, they smell of Copper.

Char. Can ye love me?  I am an Heir, sweet Lady, however I appear a poor dependent; love you with honour I shall love so ever.  Is your eye ambitious?  I may be a great man; is’t wealth or lands you covet? my Father must die.

Mir. That was well put in, I hope he’ll take it deeply.