Dear again back recall
To this light,
A stranger to himself and all;
Both the wonder and the story
Shall be yours, and eke the glory;
I am your servant and your thrall._

_Mir._ Speak such another Ode, and take all yet. What say ye to the
Scholar now?

_Ang._ I wonder; is he your Brother, Sir?

_Eust._ Yes, would he were buried; I fear he'll make an Ass of me a
younger.

_Ang._ Speak not so softly, Sir, 'tis very likely.

_Bri._ Come, leave your finical talk, and let's dispatch, _Charles_.

_Char._ Dispatch, what?

_Bri._ Why the Land.

_Char._ You are deceiv'd, Sir. Now I perceive what 'tis that wooes a
woman, and what maintains her when she's woo'd: I'll stop here. A wilful
poverty ne'er made a Beauty, nor want of means maintain'd it vertuously:
though land and moneys be no happiness, yet they are counted good
additions. That use I'll make; he that neglects a blessing, though he want
a 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 happy hour, and bless'd my ignorance;
pray give me leave, Sir, I shall clear all doubts; why did they shew me
you? pray tell me that?

(_Mir._ He'll talk thee into a pension for thy knavery.)

_Char._ You, happy you, why did you break unto me? The Rosie sugred morn
ne'er 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
beauty 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
distinguish'd, and into form he drew my faculties; and now I know my Land,
and now I love too.

_Bri._ We had best remove the Maid.

_Char._ It is too late, Sir. I have her figure here. Nay frown not,
_Eustace_, there are less worthy Souls for younger Brothers; this is no
form of Silk, but Sanctity, which wild 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 Billows of the Sea
and put a barr betwixt their fellowships, than blot out my remembrance;
sooner shut old Time into a Den, and stay his motion, wash off the swift
hours from his downy wings, or steal Eternity to stop his glass, than shut
the sweet Idea I have in me. Room for an Elder Brother, pray give place,
Sir.

_Mir._ H'