The Elder Brother. Beaumont Francis
who being issueless, to advance our name, I doubt not will add his. Your resolution?
Lew. I'le first acquaint my Daughter with the proceedings; on these terms I am yours, as she shall be, make you no scruple. Get the Writings ready, she shall be tractable; to morrow we will hold a second conference. Farewell noble Eustace; and you brave Gallants.
Eust. Full increase of honour wait ever on your Lordship.
And. The Gout rather, and a perpetual Meagrim.
Bri. You see, Eustace, how I travel to possess you of a Fortune you were not born to; be you worthy of it: I'le furnish you for a Suitor: visit her, and prosper in't.
Eust. She's mine, Sir, fear it not: in all my travels, I ne'er met a Virgin that could resist my Courtship. If it take now, we're made for ever, and will revel it. [Ex.
And. In tough Welsh Parsly, which, in our vulgar Tongue, is strong Hempen Halters; my poor Master cozen'd, and I a looker on! If we have studi'd our Majors and our Minors, Antecedents and Consequents, to be concluded Coxcombs, w'have made a fair hand on't. I am glad I have found out all their plots, and their Conspiracies; this shall t'old Monsieur Miramont, one, that though he cannot read a Proclamation, yet dotes on Learning, and loves my Master Charles for being a Scholar; I hear he's coming hither, I shall meet him; and if he be that old, rough, testy blade he always us'd to be, I'le ring him such a peal, as shall go near to shake their Belroom, peradventure beat'm, for he is fire and flax; and so have at him. [Exit.
ACTUS SE[C]UNDUS. SCENA PRIMA
Enter Miramount, Brisac.
Mir. Nay, Brother, Brother.
Bri. Pray, Sir, be not moved, I meddle with no business but mine own, and in mine own 'tis reason I should govern.
Mir. But how to govern then, and understand, Sir, and be as wise as y'are hasty, though you be my Brother, and from one bloud sprung, I must tell ye heartily and home too.
Bri. What, Sir?
Mir. What I grieve to find, you are a fool, and an old fool, and that's two.
Bri. We'll part 'em, if you please.
Mir. No, they're entail'd to 'em. Seek to deprive an honest noble Spirit, your eldest Son, Sir, and your very Image, (but he's so like you, that he fares the worse for't) because he loves his Book, and dotes on that, and only studies how to know things excellent, above the reach of such course Brains as yours, such muddy Fancies, that never will know farther than when to cut your Vines, and cozen Merchants, and choak your hidebound Tenants with musty Harvests.
Bri. You go too fast.
Mir. I'am not come to my pace yet. Because h'has made his study all his pleasure, and is retir'd into his Contemplation, not medling with the dirt and chaff of Nature, that makes the spirit of the mind mud too; therefore must he be flung from his inheritance? must he be dispossess'd, and Monsieur Gingle-boy his younger Brother—
Bri. You forget your self.
Mir. Because h'has been at Court, and learn'd new Tongues, and how to speak a tedious piece of nothing; to vary his face as Sea-men do their compass, to worship Images of gold and silver, and fall before the She- calves of the season; therefore must he jump into his Brother's Land?
Bri. Have you done yet, and have you spoke enough in praise of Learning, Sir?
Mir. Never enough.
Bri. But, Brother, do you know what Learning is?
Mir. It is not to be a Justice of Peace as you are, and palter out your time i'th' penal Statutes. To hear the curious Tenets controverted between a Protestant Constable, and Jesuite Cobler; to pick Natural Philosophy out of Bawdry, when your Worship's pleas'd to correctifie a Lady; nor 'tis not the main Moral of blind Justice, (which is deep Learning) when your Worships Tenants bring a light cause, and heavy Hens before ye, both fat and feeble, a Goose or Pig; and then you'll sit like equity with both hands weighing indifferently the state o'th' question. These are your Quodlibets, but no Learning, Brother.
Bri. You are so parlously in love with Learning, that I'd be glad to know what you understand, Brother; I'm sure you have read all Aristotle.
Mir. Faith no; but I believe I have a learned faith, Sir, and that's it makes a Gentleman of my sort; though I can speak no Greek, I love the sound of 't, it goes so thund'ring as it conjur'd Devils: Charles speaks it loftily, and if thou wert a man, or had'st but ever heard of Homers Iliads, Hesiod, and the Greek Poets, thou wouldst run mad, and hang thy self for joy th' hadst such a Gentleman to be thy Son: O he has read such things to me!
Bri. And you do understand 'em, Brother?
Mir. I tell thee, No, that's not material; the sound's sufficient to confirm an honest man: Good Brother Brisac, does your young Courtier, that wears the fine Cloaths, and is the excellent Gentleman, (the Traveller, the Soldier, as you think too) understand any other power than his Tailor? or knows what motion is more than an Horse-race? What the Moon means, but to light him home from taverns? or the comfort of the Sun is, but to wear slash'd clothes in? And must this piece of ignorance be popt up, because 't can kiss the hand, and cry, sweet Lady? Say it had been at Rome, and seen the Reliques, drunk your Verdea Wine, and rid at Naples, brought home a Box of Venice Treacle with it, to cure young Wenches that have eaten Ashes: Must this thing therefore?—
Bri. Yes Sir, this thing must; I will not trust my Land 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