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.

_Lew._ Good morrow Monsieur Miramont. _Mir._ Good night-caps
Keepe braines warme, or Maggots will breed in 'm.
Well _Charles_, thou shall not want to buy thee bookes yet,
The fairest in thy study are my gift,
And the University _Lovaine_ for thy sake,
Hath tasted of my bounty, and to vex
Th' old doting foole thy father, and thy brother,
They shall not share a _Solz_ of mine between them;
Nay more, Ile give thee eight thousand Crowns a year,
In some high strain to write my Epitaph.

_Actus II. Scaena II._

Eustace, Egremont, Cowsy.

How do I look now my elder Brother?
Nay, t'is a handsome Suit. _Cow._ All courtly, courtly.

_Eust._ Ile assure ye Gentlemen, my Taylor has travail'd,
And speaks as lofty Language in his bills too;
The cover of an old Book would not shew thus.
Fye, fie; what things these Academic