Enter Lewis.

Bri. Wel take you pleasure, here’s one I must talke with.

Lew. Good day Sir. Bri. Faire to you Sir. Lew. May I speake w’ye?

Bri. With all my heart, I was waiting on your goodness.

Lew. Good morrow Mo[n]sieur Miramont. Mir. O sweet Sir, Keep your good morrow to coole your Worships pottage, A couple of the worlds fooles met together To raise up dirt and dunghils. Lew. Are they drawne?

Bri. They shall be ready Sir, within these two houres;
And Charles set his hand. Lew. ’Tis necessary;
For he being a joint purchaser, though your state
Was got by your owne industrie, unlesse
He seale to the Conveyance, it can be
Of no validity. Bri. He shall be ready,
And do it willingly. Mir. He shall be hang’d first.

Bri. I hope your daughter likes. Lew. S[h]e loves him well Sir. 
Young Eustace is a bait to catch a woman,
A budding spritely fellow; y’are resolved then,
That all shall passe from Charles. Bri. All all, hee’s nothing,
A bunch of bookes shall be his patrimony,
And more then he can manage too. Lew. Will your brother
Passe over his land to, to your son Eustace? 
You know he has no heire. Mir. He will be flead first,
And horse-collars made of ’s skin! Bri. let him alone,
A wilful man; my state shall serve the turne, Sir. 
And how does your Daughter? Lew. Ready for the houre,
And like a blushing Rose that staies the pulling.

Bri. To morrow, then’s the day. Lew. Why then to morrow Ile bring the Girle; get you the Writings ready.

Mir. But hark you Monsieur, have you the vertuous conscience
To help to robb an heire, an Elder Brother,
Of that which Nature and the Law flings on him? 
You were your fathers eldest son, I take it,
And had his Land, would you had had his wit too,
Or his discretion to consider nobly,
What ’tis to deale unworthily in these things;
You’l say hee’s none of yours, he’s his son;
And he will say, he is no son to inherit
Above a shelfe of Bookes; Why did he get him? 
Why was he brought up to write and reade, and know things? 
Why was he not like his father, a dumbe Justice? 
A flat dull peece of flegme, shap’d like a man,
A reverend Idoll in a peece of arras? 
Can you lay disobedience, want of manners,
Or any capital crime to his charge? Lew. I doe not,
Nor do not weigh your words, they bite not me, Sir;
This man must answer. Bri. I have don’t already. 
And giv’n sufficient reason to secure me;
And so good morrow brother to your patience.