LITMIR.BIZ

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to your Roast and Bak'd meats handsomely, and what new Kick-shaws and delicate made things—Is th' Musick come?

      But. Yes, Sir, they're here at Breakfast.

      Bri. There will be a Masque too; you must see this Room clean, and, Butler, your door open to all good-fellows; but have an eye to your Plate, for there be Furies; my Lilly, welcome you are for the Linen, sort it, and see it ready for the Table, and see the Bride-bed made, and look the cords be not cut asunder by the Gallants too, there be such knacks abroad. Hark hither, Lilly, to morrow night at twelve a clo[c]k I'le sup w'ye: your husband shall be safe, I'le send ye meat too; before I cannot well slip from my company.

      And. Will you so, will you so, Sir? I'le make one to eat it, I may chance make you stagger too.

      Bri. No answer, Lilly?

      Lil. One word about the Linen; I'le be ready, and rest your Worships still.

      And. And I'le rest w'ye, you shall see what rest 'twill be. Are ye so nimble? a man had need have ten pair of ears to watch you.

      Bri. Wait on your Master, for I know he wants ye, and keep him in his Study, that the noise do not molest him. I will not fail my Lilly—Come in, sweet-hearts, all to their several duties. [Exeunt.

      And. Are you kissing ripe, Sir? Double but my Farm, and kiss her till thy heart ake. These Smock-vermine, how eagerly they leap at old mens kisses, they lick their lips at profit, not at pleasure; and if 't were not for the scurvy name of Cuckold, he should lie with her. I know she'll labour at length with a good Lordship. If he had a Wife now, but that's all one, I'le fit him. I must up unto my Master, he'll be mad with Study— [Exit.

      ACTUS III. SCENA III

      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

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