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

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 in any Christian Language? Were it Greek I could interpret for you, but indeed I'm gone no farther.
Bri. And in Greek you can lie with your smug Wife Lilly.
And. If I keep her from your French Dialect, as I hope I shall, Sir; however she is your Landress, she shall put you to the charge of no more Soap than usual for th'washing of your Sheets.
Bri. Take in the Knave, and let him eat.
And. And drink too, Sir.
Bri. And drink too Sir, and see your Masters Chamber ready for him.
But. Come,