and to one so
sotted, so grown like a Disease unto his Study; he that will fling off all
occasions and cares, to make him understand what state is, and how to
govern it, must, by that reason, be flung himself aside from managing. My
younger Boy is a fine Gentleman.

_Mir._ He is an Ass, a piece of Ginger-bread, gilt over to please foolish
Girls puppets.

_Bri._ You are my elder Brother.

_Mir._ So I had need, and have an elder Wit, thou'dst shame us all else.
Go to, I say, _Charles_ shall inherit.

_Bri._ I say, no, unless _Charles_ had a Soul to understand it; can he
manage six thousand Crowns a year out of the Metaphysics? or can all his
learn'd Astronomy look to my Vineyards? Can the drunken old Poets make up
my Vines? (I know they can drink 'em) or your excellent Humanists sell 'em
the Merchants for my best advantage? Can History cut my Hay, or get my
Corn in? And can Geometry vend it in the Market? Shall I have my sheep
kept with a _Jacobs-staff_ now? I wonder you will magnifie this madman,
you that are old, and should understand.

_Mir._ Should, say'st thou? thou monstrous piece of ignorance in Office!
thou that hast no more knowledge than thy Clerk infuses, thy dapper Clerk,
larded with ends of Latin, and he no more than custom of offences. Thou
unreprieveable Dunce! that thy formal Bandstrings, thy Ring, nor pomander
cannot expiate for, dost thou tell me I should? I'le pose thy Worship in
thine own Library and Almanack, which thou art daily poring on, to pick
out days of iniquity to cozen fools in, and Full Moons to cut Cattle: dost
thou taint me, that have run over Story, Poetry, Humanity?

_Bri._ As a cold nipping shadow does o'er ears of Corn, and leave 'em
blasted, put up your anger, what I'll do, I'll do.

_Mir._ Thou shalt not do.

_Bri._ I will.

_Mir._ Thou art an Ass then, a dull old tedious Ass; th' art ten times
worse, and of less credit than Dunce _Hollingshead_ the Englishman, that
writes of Shows and Sheriffs.

_Enter_ Lewis.

_Bri._ Well, take your pleasure, here's one I must talk with.

_Lew._ Good-day, Sir.

_Bri._ Fair to you, Sir.

_Lew._ May I speak w'ye?

_Bri._ With all my heart, I was waiting on your goodness.

_Lew._ Good morrow, Monsieur _Miramont_.

_Mir._ O sweet Sir, keep your good morrow to cool your Worships pottage; a
couple of the worlds fools met together to raise up dirt and dunghils.

_Lew._ Are they drawn?

_Bri._ They shall be ready, Sir, within these