your finical talke, and let's dispatch, _Charles_.

_Cha._ Dispatch? What? _Bri._ Why the land. _Cha._ You are deceiv'd, Sir,
Now I perceive what 'tis that woes a woman,
And what maintaines her when shee's woo'd: Ile stop here.
A wilfull poverty nere made a beauty,
Nor want of meanes maintain'd it vertuously:
Though land and monies be no happinesse,
Yet they are counted good additions.
That use Ile make; He that neglects a blessing,
Though he want present knowledge how to use it,
Neglects himself; May be I have done you wrong Lady,
Whose love and hope went hand in hand together;
May be my brother, that has long expected
The happie houre and blest my ignorance;
Pray give me leave Sir, I shall cleare all doubts.
Why did they shew me you? Pray tell me that?

(_Mir._ Hee'l talke thee into a pension for thy knaverie)

_Cha._ You happie you, why did you breake unto me?
The rosie sugred morne nere broke so sweetly:
I am a man, and have desires within me,
Affections too, though they were drown'd a while,
And lay dead, till the Spring of beautie rais'd them;
Till I saw those eyes, I was but a lump;
A Chaos of confusedness dwelt in me;
Then from those eyes shot Love, and he distinguisht,
And into forme he drew my faculties;
And now I know my Land, and now I love too.

_Bri._ We had best remove the Maide. _Cha._ It is too late Sir.
I have her figure here. Nay frowne not _Eustace_,
There are lesse worthie soules for younger brothers;
This is no forme of silk but sanctitie,
Which wilde lascivious hearts can never dignifie.
Remove her where you will, I walk along still;
For like the light we make no separation;
You may sooner part the billowes of the Sea,
And put a barre betwixt their fellowships,
Than blot out my remembrance; sooner shut
Old time into a Den, and stay his motion,
Wash off the swift houres from his downie wings,
Or steale eternitie to stop his glasse,
Than shut the sweet Idea I have in me.
Roome for an elder brother, pray give place, Sir.

_Mir._ Has studied duel too, take heed, hee'l beat thee.
Has frighted the old Justice into a fever;
I hope hee'l disinherit him too for an asse;
For though he be grave with yeeres, hee's a great babie.

_Cha._ Doe not you think me mad? _Ang._ No certain, Sir,
I have heard nothing from you but things excellent.

_Cha._ You looke upon my cloathes and laugh at me,
My scurvie clothes! _Ang._ They have rich linings Sir.
I would your brother-- _Cha._ His are gold