in full
plenty (which still preserves a quiet Bed at home) maintain a Family.

_Lew_. Aptly consider'd, and to my wish: But what's thy censure of the
Scholar?

_Ang._ Troth (if he be nothing else) as of the Courtier, all his Songs and
Sonnets, his Anagrams, Acrosticks, Epigrams, his deep and Philosophical
Discourse of Nature's hidden Secrets, makes not up a perfect Husband; he
can hardly borrow the Stars of the Celestial Crown to make me a Tire for
my Head, nor _Charles's Wain_ for a Coach, nor _Ganymede_ for a Page, nor
a rich Gown from _Juno's_ Wardrobe, nor would I lie in (for I despair not
once to be a Mother) under Heaven's spangled Canopy, or Banquet my Guests
and Gossips with imagin'd Nectar; pure _Orleans_ would do better: No, no,
Father, though I could be well pleas'd to have my Husband a Courtier, and
a Scholar, young, and valiant; these are but gawdy nothings, if there be
not something to make a substance.

_Lew._ And what is that?

_Ang._ A full Estate, and that said, I've said all; and get me such a one
with these Additions, farwel Virginity, and welcome Wedlock.

_Lew._ But where is such a one to be met with, Daughter? A black Swan is
more common; you may wear grey Tresses e're we find him.

_Ang._ I am not so punctual in all Ceremonies, I will 'bate two or three
of these good parts, before I'le dwell too long upon the choice.

_Syl._ Only, my Lord, remember, that he be rich and active, for without
these, the others yield no relish, but these perfect. You must bear with
small faults, Madam.

_Lew._ Merry Wench, and it becomes you well; I'le to _Brisac_, and try
what may be done; i'th' mean time home, and feast thy thoughts with
th'pleasures of a Bride.

_Syl._ Thoughts are but airy food, Sir, let her taste them.

ACTUS I. SCENA II.

_Enter_ Andrew, Cook, _and_ Butler.

_And._ Unload part of the Library, and make room for th'other dozen of
Carts; I'le straight be with you.

_Cook._ Why, hath he more Books?

_And._ More than ten Marts send over.

_But._ And can he tell their names?

_And._ Their names! he has 'em as perfect as his _Pater Noster_; but
that's nothing, h'as read them over leaf by leaf three thousand times; but
here's the wonder, though their weight would sink a Spanish Carrock,
without other Ballast, he carrieth them all in his head, and yet he walks
upright.

_But._ Surely he has a strong brain.

_And._ If all thy pipes of Wine were fill'd with Books, made of t