_Enter_ Charles.
_Char._ What a noise is in this house? my head is broken, within a
Parenthesis, in every corner, as if the Earth were shaken with some
strange Collect, there are stirs and motions. What Planet rules this
house?
_Enter_ Andrew.
Who's there?
_And._ 'Tis I, Sir, faithful _Andrew_.
_Char._ Come near, and lay thine ear down; hear'st no noise?
_And._ The Cooks are chopping herbs and mince-meat to make Pies, and
breaking Marrow-bones--
_Char._ Can they set them again?
_And._ Yes, yes, in Broths and Puddings, and they grow stronger for the
use of any man.
_Char._ What speaking's that? sure there's a Massacre.
_And._ Of Pigs and Geese, Sir, and Turkeys, for the spit. The Cooks are
angry Sirs, and that makes up the medley.
_Char._ Do they thus at every Dinner? I ne're mark'd them yet, nor know
who is a Cook.
_And._ They're sometimes sober, and then they beat as gently as a Tabor.
_Char._ What loads are these?
_And._ Meat, meat, Sir, for the Kitchen, and stinking Fowls the Tenants
have sent in; they'll ne'r be found out at a general eating; and there's
fat Venison, Sir.
_Char._ What's that?
_And._ Why Deer, those that men fatten for their private pleasures, and
let their Tenants starve upon the Commons.
_Char._ I've read of Deer, but yet I ne'er eat any.
_And._ There's a Fishmongers Boy with Caviar, Sir, Anchoves, and Potargo,
to make ye drink.
_Char._ Sure these are modern, very modern meats, for I understand 'em
not.
_And._ No more does any man from Caca merda, or a substance worse, till
they be greas'd with Oyl, and rubb'd with Onions, and then flung out of
doors, they are rare Sallads.
_Char._ And why is all this, prethee tell me, _Andrew_? are there any
Princes to dine here to day? by this abundance sure there should be
Princes; I've read of entertainment for the gods at half this charge; will
not six Dishes serve 'em? I never had but one, and that a small one.
_And._Your Brother's marri'd this day; he's marri'd your younger Brother
_Eustace_.
_Char._ What of that?
_And._ And all the Friends about are bidden hither; there's not a Dog that
knows the house, but comes too.
_Char._ Marri'd! to whom?
_And._ Why to a dainty Gentlewoman, young, sweet, and modest.
_Char._ Are there modest women? how do they look?
_And._ O you'll bless yourself to see them. He parts with's Books, he
ne'er did so before yet.
_Char._ What does my Father for 'em?
_And._ Gives all his Land, and makes your Brother heir.
_Char._ Must I have nothing?
_And._ Yes, you must study still, and he'll maintain you.
_Char._ I am his eldest Brother.
_And._ True, you were so; but he has leap'd o'er your shoulders, Sir.
_Char._ 'Tis well; he'll not inherit my understanding too?
_And._ I think not; he'll scarce find Tenants to let it out to.
_Char._ Hark! hark!
_And._ The Coach that brings the fair Lady.
_Enter_ Lewis, Angellina, Ladies, Notary, &c.
_And._ Now you may see her.
_Char._ Sure this should be modest, but I do not truly know what women
make of it, _Andrew_; she has a face looks like a story, the story of the
Heavens looks very like her.
_And._ She has a wide face then.
_Char._ She has a Cherubin's, cover'd and vail'd with modest blushes.
_Eustace_, be happy, whiles poor _Charles_ is patient. Get me my Books
again, and come in with me-- [_Exeunt._
_Enter_ Brisac, Eustace, Egremont, Cowsy, Miramont.
_Bri._ Welcome, sweet Daughter; welcome, noble Brother; and you are
welcome, Sir, with all your Writings; Ladys, most welcome: What, my angry
Brother! you must be welcome too, the Feast is flat else.
_Mir._ I am not come for your welcome, I expect none; I bring no joys to
bless the bed withall; nor Songs, nor Masques to glorifie the Nuptials; I
bring an angry mind to see your folly, a sharp one too, to reprehend you
for it.
_Bri._ You'll stay and dine though.
_Mir._ All your meat smells musty, your Table will shew nothing to content
me.
_Bri._ I'le answer you here's good meat.
_Mir._ But your sauce is scurvie, it is not season'd with the sharpness of
discretion.
_Eust._ It seems your anger is at me, dear Uncle.
_Mir._ Thou art not worth my anger, th'art a Boy, a lump o'thy Father's
lightness, made of nothing but antick cloathes and cringes; look in thy
head, and 'twill appear a foot-ball full of fumes and rotten smoke. Lady,
I pity you; you are a handsome and a sweet young Lady, and ought to have a
handsom man yok'd t'ye, an understanding too; this is a Gimcrack, that can
get nothing but new fashions on you; for say he have a thing shap'd like a
child, 'twill either prove a Tumbler or a Tailor.
_Eust._ These are but harsh words, Uncle.
_Mir._ So I mean 'em. Sir, you play harsher play w'your elder Brother.
_Eust._ I would be loth to give you.
_Mir._ Do not venture, I'le make your wedding cloaths sit closer t'ye
then; I but disturb you, I'le go see my Nephew.
_Lew._ Pray take a piece of Rosemary.
_Mir._ I'le wear it, but for the Ladys sake, and none of yours; may be
I'le see your Table too.
_Bri._ Pray do, Sir.
_Ang._ A mad old Gentleman.
_Bri._ Yes faith, sweet Daughter, he has been thus his whole age, to my
knowledge; he has made _Charles_ his Heir, I know that certainly; then why
should he grudge _Eustace_ any thing?
_Ang._ I would not have a light head, nor one laden with too much
learning, as, they say, this _Charles_ is, that makes his Book his
Mistris; Sure there's something hid in this old man's anger, that declares
him not a meer sot.
_Bri._ Come, shall we go and seal, Brother? all things are ready, and the
Priest is here. When _Charles_ has set his hand unto the Writings, as he
shall instantly, then to the Wedding, and so to dinner.
_Lew._ Come, let's seal the Book first for my Daughters Jointure.
_Bri._ Let's be private in't, Sir. [_Exeunt._