of hearty matters,
And come into the Kitchin, and there cut his breakfast?

_But._ And then retyre to the Buttry and there eat it,
And drink a lusty bowle to my younger Master
That must be now the heir will do all these,
I and be drunk too; These are mortal things.

_And._ My Master studies immortality. _Coo._ Now thou talk'st
Of immortality, how do's thy wife _Andrew_? My old Master
Did you no small pleasure when he procur'd her
And stock'd you in a farme. If he should love her now,
As he hath a Colts tooth yet, what sayes your learning
And your strange instruments to that my _Andrew_?
Can any of your learned Clerks avoid it?
Can ye put by his Mathematical Engine?

_And._ Yes, or Ile break it; thou awaken'st me,
And Ile peep ith' Moon this moneth but Ile watch for him.
My Master rings, I must go make him a fire,
And conjure ore his books. _Coo_. Adieu good _Andrew_,
And send thee manly patience with thy learning. _Exeu_.

_Actus II. Scaena IV._

Charles.

I have forgot to eat and sleep with reading,
And all my faculties turn into studie;
'Tis meat and sleep; what need I outward garments,
When I can cloathe my self with understanding?
The stars and glorious planets have no Taylors,
Yet ever new they are and shine like Courtiers.
The seasons of the yeare find no fond parents,
Yet some are arm'd in silver Ice that glisters,
And sovne in gawdy green come in like Masquers:
The Silk-worme spines her owne suit and her lodging,
And has no aid nor partner in her labours:
Why should we care for any thing but knowledge,
Or look upon the world but to contemne it?

_Enter_ Andrew.

Would you have any thing? _Cha. Andrew_, I find
There is a flie grown o're the eye oth' Bull,
Which will go neere to blind the Constellation.

_And_. Put a gold-ring in's nose, and that will cure him.

_Cha_. _Ariadne's_ crown's away too; two main starres
That held it fast are slip'd out. _And_. Send it presently
To _Gallatteo_ the Italian Star-wright
Hee'll set it right againe with little labour.

_Cha_. Thou art a pretty Schollar. _And_. I hope I shall be;
Have I swept bookes so often to know nothing?

_Cha_. I heare thou art married. _And_. It hath pleas'd your father
To match me to a maid of his owne choosing,
I doubt her constellation's loose too, and wants nailing,
And a sweet farme he has given us a mile off Sir.

_Cha_. Marry thy selfe to understanding, _Andrew_,
These women are _Errata_ in