And. Hee’s put out of Commission with disgrace,
And held uncapable of bearing Office
Ever hereafter.  This is my revenge,
And this Ile put in practice. Bri. Doe but heare me.

And. To bring me back from my Grammer to my horne-book, It is unpardonable. Bri. Do not play the Tyrant; Accept of composition. Lil. Heare him, Andrew.

And. What composition? Bri. Ile confirme thy farme,
And add unto’t an hundred acres more
Adjoyning to it. And. Umb, This mollifies,
But y’are so fickle:  and will again denie this,
There being no witness by. Bri. Call any witness,
Ile presently assure it. And. Say you so,
Troth there’s a friend of mine Sir, within hearing,
That is familiar with all that’s past,
His testimonie will be authentical.

Bri. will he be secret? And. You may tye his tongue up.  As you would doe your purse-strings. Br. Miramont.  M. Ha, Ha, Ha.

And. this is my witness.  Lord how you are troubled? 
Sure, y’have an ague, you shake so with choler;
Hee’s your loving brother Sir, and will tell no bodie
But all he meets, that you have eate a snake,
And are grown young, gamesom, and rampant. Bri. Caught thus?

And. If he were one that would make jests of you,
Or plague ye with making your religious gravitie
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,
Hee’s now past kissing, between point and point. 
He swounds, fetch him some Cordiall—­Now put in Sir.

Mir. Who may this be? sure this is some mistake: 
Let me see his face, weares he not a false beard? 
It cannot be Brisac that worthie Gentleman,
The pillar and the patron of his Countrie;
He is too prudent and too cautelous,
Experience hath taught him t’avoid these fooleries,
He is the punisher and not the doer,
Besides hee’s old and cold, unfit for woman;
This is some Counterfeit, he shall be whipt for’t,
Some base abuser of my worthie brother.

Bri. Open the doores, will ye’imprison me? are ye my Judges?

Mir. The man raves!  This is not judicious Brisac:  Yet now I think on’t, a’ has a kinde of dog looke Like my brother, a guiltie hanging face.

Bri. Ile suffer bravely, doe your worst, doe, doe.

Mir. Why, it’s manly in you. Bri. Nor will I raile nor curse,
You slave, you whore, I will not meddle with you,
But all the torments that ere fell on men,
That fed on mischiefe, fall heavily on you all. Exit.

Lil. You have giv’n him a heat, Sir. Mir. He will ride you The better, Lil. And. Wee’l teach him to meddle with Scholars.