The Works of Francis Beaumont and John Fletcher, vol 2 | Page 7

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 to cool your Worships
pottage; a couple of the worlds fools met together to raise up dirt and
dunghils.
Lew. Are they drawn?
Bri. They shall be ready, Sir, within these two hours; and Charles set
his hand.
Lew. 'Tis necessary; for he being