he Starres of the Celestial crown to make me
A tire for my head; nor _Charles_ Waine for a Coach,
Nor _Ganymede_ for a Page, nor a rich Gowne
From _Juno's_ Wardrob, nor would I lye in
(For I despaire not once to be a mother)
Under heavens spangled Canopy, or banquet
My guests and Gossips with imagin'd Nectar;
Pure _Orleans_ would doe better; no, no, father,
Though I could be well pleas'd to have my husband
A Courtier, and a Schollar, 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,
Farewell Virginity, and welcome wedlock.

_Lew_. But where is such one to be met with Daughter?
A black Swan is more common, you may weare
Grey tresses ere we find him. _Ang_. I am not
So punctual in all ceremonies, I will bate
Two or three of these good parts, before Ile dwell
Too long upon the choice. _Syl_. Onely, my Lord, remember
That he be rich and active, for without these
The others yeeld no relish, but these perfect;
You must bear with small faults, Madam. _Lew_. Merry Wench,
And it becomes you well; Ile to _Brisac_,
And try what may be done; ith' mean time, home,
And feast thy thoughts with th' pleasures of a Bride.

_Syl_. Thoughts are but airy food Sir, let her tast them.

_Actus I. Scena II._

Andrew, Cooke, Butler.

Unload part of the Library, and make roome
For th' other dozen of Carts, Ile straight be with you.

_Co_. Why hath he more bookes? _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,
'Has red them over leaf by leaf three thousand times;
But here's the wonder, though their weight would sink
A Spanish Carrack, without other ballast,
He carryeth them all in his head, and yet
He walkes upright. _But_. Surely he has a strong braine.

_And_. If all thy pipes of wine were fill'd with bookes
Made of the barkes of trees, or mysteries writ
In old moth-eaten vellam, he would sip thy Celler
Quite dry, and still be thirsty; Then for's Diet,
He eats and digests more Volumes at a meal,
Than there would be Larkes (though the sky should fall)
Devowred in a moneth in _Paris_, yet feare not
Sons oth' buttry, and kitchin, though his learn'd stomack
Cannot b' appeas'd; Hee'll seldom trouble you,
His knowing stomack contemne