And.  By all means, I’ll only have a Ballad made of’t, sung to some lewd Tune, and the name of it shall be Justice Trap; it will sell rarely with your Worships name, and Lilly’s on the top.

Bri.  Seek not the ruine o’ my reputation, Andrew.

And.  ’Tis for your credit, Monsieur Brisac, printed in Capital Letters, then pasted upon all the posts in Paris.

Bri.  No mercy, Andrew?

And.  O, it will proclaim you from the City to the Court, and prove Sport Royal.

Bri.  Thou shalt keep thy Farm.

Mir.  He does afflict him rarely.

And.  You trouble me.  Then his intent arriving, the vizard of his hypocrisie pull’d of[f] to the Judge criminal.

Bri.  O I am undone.

And.  He’s put out of Commission with disgrace, and held uncapable of bearing Office ever hereafter.  This is my revenge, and this I’ll put in practice.

Bri.  Do but hear me.

And.  To bring me back from my Grammar to my Hornbook, it is unpardonable.

Bri.  Do not play the Tyrant; accept of composition.

Lil.  Hear him, Andrew.

And.  What composition?

Bri.  I’ll confirm thy Farm, and add unto it a hundred Acres more, adjoyning to it.

And.  Umb, this mollifies; but y’are so fickle, and will again deny this, there being no witness by.

Bri.  Call any witness, I’ll presently assure it.

And.  Say you so? troth there’s a friend of mine, Sir, within hearing, that’s familiar with all that’s past, his testimony will be authentical.

Bri.  Will he be secret?

And.  You may tie his tongue up, as you would do your purse-strings.

Bri. Miramont!

Mir.  Ha-ha-ha!

And.  This is my witness.  Lord how you are troubled! sure you have an Ag[u]e, you shake so with choler:  Here’s your loving Brother, Sir, and will tell no body but all he meets, that you have eat a Snake, and are grown young, gamesome, and rampant.

Bri.  Caught thus?

And.  If he were one that would make jests of you, or plague ye, with making your Religious gravity ridiculous to your Neighbours, then you had some cause to be perplex’d.

Bri.  I shall become discourse for Clowns and Tapsters.

And.  Quick, Lilly, quick, he’s now past kissing, between point and point.  He swounds, fetch him some Cordial—­Now put in, Sir.

Mir.  Who may this be? sure this is some mistake:  let me see his face, wears he not a false beard? it cannot be Brisac that worthy Gentleman, the Pillar and the Patron of his Country; he is too prudent, and too cautelous, experience hath taught him t’avoid these fooleries, he is the punisher, and not the doer; besides he’s old and cold, unfit for Woman:  This is some counterfeit, he shall be whipt for’t, some base abuser of my worthy Brother.