rd
Knowell. What might the gentleman's name be, sir, that sent it?
Nay, pray you be covered.

Serv. One master Wellbred, sir.

Know. Master Wellbred! a young gentleman, is he not?

Serv. The same, sir; master Kitely married his sister; the rich
merchant in the Old Jewry.

Know. You say very true.---Brainworm! [Enter Brainworm.

Brai. Sir.

Know. Make this honest friend drink here: pray you, go in.
[Exeunt Brainworm and Servant.
This letter is directed to my son;
Yet I am Edward Knowell too, and may,
With the safe conscience of good manners, use
The fellow's error to my satisfaction.
Well, I will break it ope (old men are curious),
Be it but for the style's sake and the phrase;
To see if both do answer my son's praises,
Who is almost grown the idolater
Of this young Wellbred. What have we here?
What's this? [Reads]

Why, Ned, I beseech thee, hast thou forsworn all thy friends in the
Old Jewry? or dost thou think us all Jews that inhabit there? yet,
if thou dost, come over, and but see our frippery; change an old
shirt for a whole smock with us: do not conceive that antipathy
between us and Hogsden, as was between Jews and hogs-flesh. Leave
thy vigilant father alone, to number over his green apricots,
evening and morning, on the north-west wall: an I had been his son,
I had saved him the labour long since, if taking in all the young
wenches that pass by at the back-door, and codling every kernel of
the fruit for them, would have served, But, pr'ythee, come over to
me quickly this morning; I have such a present for thee!--our
Turkey company never sent the like to the Grand Signior.
One is a rhymer, sir, of your own batch, your own leaven;
but doth think himself poet-major of the town, willing to be shewn,
and worthy to be seen. The other--I will not venture his
description with you, till you come, because I would have you make
hither with an appetite. If the worst of 'em be not worth your
journey draw your bill of charges, as unconscionable as any
Guildhall verdict will give it you, and you shall be allowed your
viaticum. From the Windmill.

From the Bordello it might come as well,
The Spittle, or Pict-hatch. Is this the man
My son hath sung so, for the happiest wit,
The choicest brain, the tim