Mir. I tell thee no, that’s not material; the sound’s
Sufficient to confirme an honest man: 
Good brother Brisac, do’s your young Courtier
That weares the fine cloathes, and is the excellent Gentleman,
(The Traveller, the Souldier, as you think too)
Understand any other power than his Taylor? 
Or knowes what motion is more than an Horse race? 
What the moon meanes, but to light him home from Taverns? 
Or the comfort of the Sun is, but to weare slash’t clothes in? 
And must this peece of ignorance be popt up,
Because ’t can Kisse the hand, and cry sweet Lady? 
Say it had been at Rome, and seen the Reliques,
Drunk your Verdea wine, and ridde at Naples,
Brought home a pox of Venice treacle with it,
To cure young wenches that have eaten ashes: 
Must this thing therefore?—­ Bri. Yes Sir this thing must,
I will not trust my land to one so sotted,
So grown like a disease unto his studie;
He that will fling off all occasions
And cares, to make him understand what state is,
And how to govern it, must by that reason,
Be flung himself aside from managing: 
My younger boy is a fine Gentleman.

Mir. He is an asse, a peece of Ginger-bread, Gilt over to please foolish girles puppets.

Bri. You are my elder Brother. Mir. So I had need,
And have an elder wit, thou’dst shame us all else. 
Go too, I say, Charles shall inherit. Bri. I say no,
Unless Charles had a soul to understand it;
Can he manage six thousand Crowns a yeare
Out of the Metaphysicks? or can all
His learn’d Astronomy look to my Vineyards? 
Can the drunken old Poets make up my Vines? 
(I know they can drinke ’m) or your excellent Humanists
Sell ’m the Merchants for my best advantage? 
Can History cut my hay, or get my Corne in? 
And can Geometrie vent it in the market? 
Shall I have my sheepe kept with a Jacobs staffe now? 
I wonder you will magnifie this mad man,
You that are old and should understand. Mir. Should, sai’st thou,
Thou monstrous peece of ignorance in office! 
Thou that hast no more knowledge than thy Clerk infuses,
Thy dapper Clerk larded with ends of Latin,
And he no more than custom of offences;
Thou unrepriveable Dunce! that thy formal band strings,
Thy Ring nor pomander cannot expiate for,
Do’st thou tell me I should?  Ile pose thy Worship
In thine own Libraty an Almanack,
Which thou art dayly poring on to pick out
Dayes of iniquity to cozen fooles in,
And full Moones to cut Cattel; do’st thou taint me,
That have run over Story, Poetry,
Humanity? Bri. As a cold nipping shadow
Does ore eares of Corne, and leave ’em blasted,
Put up your anger, what Ile do Ile do.

Mir. Thou shall not doe. Bri. I will. Mir. Thou art an Asse then,
A dull old tedious Asse, th[’] art ten times worse
And of lesse credit than Dunce Hollingshead
The Englishman, that writes of snowes and Sheriffes.