The Works of Francis Beaumont and John Fletcher, vol 2 | Page 3

by conveyance from
some great ones lips, to taste such favour from the King: or grant he
purchase precedency in the Court, to be sworn a servant Extraordinary
to the Queen; nay, though he live in expectation of some huge
preferment in reversion; if he want a present fortune, at the best those
are but glorious dreams, and only yield him a happiness in posse, not in
esse; nor can they fetch him Silks from the Mercer, nor discharge a
Tailors Bill, nor in full plenty (which still preserves a quiet Bed at
home) maintain a Family.
Lew. Aptly consider'd, and to my wish: But what's thy censure of the
Scholar?
Ang. Troth (if he be nothing else) as of the Courtier, all his Songs and

Sonnets, his Anagrams, Acrosticks, Epigrams, his deep and
Philosophical Discourse of Nature's hidden Secrets, makes not up a
perfect Husband; he can hardly borrow the Stars of the Celestial Crown
to make me a Tire for my Head, nor Charles's Wain for a Coach, nor
Ganymede for a Page, nor a rich Gown from Juno's Wardrobe, nor
would I lie in (for I despair not once to be a Mother) under Heaven's
spangled Canopy, or Banquet my Guests and Gossips with imagin'd
Nectar; pure Orleans would do better: No, no, Father, though I could
be well pleas'd to have my Husband a Courtier, and a Scholar, young,
and valiant; these are but gawdy nothings, if there be not something to
make a substance.
Lew. And what is that?
Ang. A full Estate, and that said, I've said all; and get me such a one
with these Additions, farwel Virginity, and welcome Wedlock.
Lew. But where is such a one to be met with, Daughter? A black Swan
is more common; you may wear grey Tresses e're we find him.
Ang. I am not so punctual in all Ceremonies, I will 'bate two or three of
these good parts, before I'le dwell too long upon the choice.
Syl. Only, my Lord, remember, that he be rich and active, for without
these, the others yield no relish, but these perfect. You must bear with
small faults, Madam.
Lew. Merry Wench, and it becomes you well; I'le to Brisac, and try
what may be done; i'th' mean time home, and feast thy thoughts with
th'pleasures of a Bride.
Syl. Thoughts are but airy food, Sir, let her taste them.

ACTUS I. SCENA II.
Enter Andrew, Cook, and Butler.

And. Unload part of the Library, and make room for th'other dozen of
Carts; I'le straight be with you.
Cook. Why, hath he more Books?
And. More than ten Marts send over.
But. And can he tell their names?
And. Their names! he has 'em as perfect as his Pater Noster; but that's
nothing, h'as read them over leaf by leaf three thousand times; but
here's the wonder, though their weight would sink a Spanish Carrock,
without other Ballast, he carrieth them all in his head, and yet he walks
upright.
But. Surely he has a strong brain.
And. If all thy pipes of Wine were fill'd with Books, made of the Barks
of Trees, or Mysteries writ in old moth-eaten Vellam, he would sip thy
Cellar quite dry, and still be thirsty: Then for's Diet, he eats and digests
more Volumes at a meal, than there would be Larks (though the Sky
should fall) devoured in a month in Paris. Yet fear not Sons o'the
Buttery and Kitchin, though his learn'd stomach cannot be appeas'd;
he'll seldom trouble you, his knowing stomach contemns your
Black-jacks, Butler, and your Flagons; and Cook, thy Boil'd, thy Rost,
thy Bak'd.
Cook. How liveth he?
And. Not as other men do, few Princes fare like him; he breaks his fast
with Aristotle, dines with Tully, takes his watering with the Muses, sups
with Livy, then walks a turn or two in Via Lactea, and (after six hours
conference with the Stars) sleeps with old Erra Pater.
But. This is admirable.
And. I'le tell you more hereafter. Here's my old Master, and another old
ignorant Elder; I'le upon 'em.

Enter Brisac, Lewis.
Bri. What, Andrew? welcome; where's my Charles? speak, Andrew,
where did'st thou leave thy Master?
And. Contemplating the number of the Sands in the Highway, and from
that, purposes to make a Judgment of the remainder in the Sea: he is,
Sir, in serious study, and will lose no minute, nor out of's pace to
knowledge.
Lew. This is strange.
And. Yet he hath sent his duty, Sir, before him in this fair Manuscript.
Bri. What have we here? Pot-hooks and Andirons!
And. I much pity you, it is the Syrian Character, or the Arabick. Would
you have it said, so great and deep a Scholar as Mr Charles is, should
ask blessing