The Works of Francis Beaumont and John Fletcher, vol 2 | Page 9

morrow?
Co. Excellent good cheer, Andrew.
And. The spight on't is, that much about that time, I shall be arguing, or deciding rather, which are the Males or Females of Red Herrings, and whether they be taken in the Red-Sea only; a question found out by Copernicus, the learned Motion-maker.
Co. I marry, Butler, here are rare things; a man that look'd upon him, would swear he understood no more than we do.
But. Certain, a learned Andrew.
And. I've so much on't, and am so loaden with strong understanding, I fear, they'll run me mad. Here's a new Instrument, a Mathematical Glister to purge the Moon with when she is laden with cold phlegmatick humours; and here's another to remove the Stars, when they grow too thick in the Firmament.
Co. O Heavens! why do I labour out my life in a Beef-pot? and only search the secrets of a Sallad, and know no farther?
And. They are not reveal'd to all heads; these are far above your Element of Fire, Cook. I could tell you of Archimedes Glass, to fire your Coals with; and of the Philosophers Turf, that ne'er goes out: and, Gilbert Butler, I could ravish thee with two rare inventions.
But. What are they, Andrew.
And. The one to blanch your Bread from chippings base, and in a moment, as thou wouldst an Almond; the Sect of the Epicureans invented that: The other for thy Trenchers, that's a strong one, to cleanse you twenty dozen in a minute, and no noise heard, which is the wonder, Gilbert; and this was out of Plato's new Ideas.
But. Why, what a learned Master do'st thou serve, Andrew?
And. These are but the scrapings of his understanding, Gilbert; with gods and goddesses, and such strange people he deals, and treats with in so plain a fashion, as thou do'st with thy Boy that draws thy drink, or Ralph there, with his Kitchin-Boys and Scalders.
Co. But why should he not be familiar, and talk sometimes, as other Christians do, of hearty matters, and come into the Kitchin, and there cut his Breakfast?
But. And then retire to the Buttery, and there eat it, and drink a lusty Bowl to my young Master, that must be now the Heir, he'll do all these, I and be drunk too; these are mortal things.
And. My Master studies immortality.
Co. Now thou talk'st of immortality, how do's thy Wife, Andrew? my old Master did you no small Pleasure when he procur'd her, and stock'd you in a Farm. If he should love her now, as he hath a Colts tooth yet, what says your learning and your strange Instruments to that, my Andrew? Can any of your learned Clerks avoid it? can ye put by his Mathematical Engine?
And. Yes, or I'le break it: thou awaken'st me, and I'le peep i'th' Moon this month but I'le watch for him. My Master rings, I must go make him a fire, and conjure o'er his Books.
Co. Adieu, good Andrew, and send thee manly patience with thy learning. [Exeunt.

ACTUS II. SCENA IV.
Enter Charles.
Cha. I have forgot to eat and sleep with reading, and all my faculties turn into study; 'tis meat and sleep; what need I outward garments, when I can cloath my self with understanding? The Stars and glorious Planets have no Tailors, yet ever new they are, and shine like Courtiers. The Seasons of the year find no fond Parents, yet some are arm'd in silver Ice that glisters, and some in gawdy Green come in like Masquers. The Silk-worm spins her own suit and lodging, and has no aid nor partner in her labours. Why should we care for any thing but knowledge, or look upon the World but to contemn it?
Enter Andrew.
And. Would you have any thing?
Char. Andrew, I find there is a flie grown o'er the Eye o'th' Bull, which will go near to blind the Constellation.
And. Put a Gold-ring in's nose, and that will cure him.
Char. Ariadne's Crown's away too; two main Stars that held it fast are slip[t] out.
And. Send it presently to Galateo, the Italian Star-wright, he'll set it right again with little labour.
Char. Thou art a pretty Scholar.
And. I hope I shall be; have I swept Books so often to know nothing?
Char. I hear thou art married.
And. It hath pleas'd your Father to match me to a Maid of his own chusing; I doubt her Constellation's loose too, and wants nailing; and a sweet Farm he has given us a mile off, Sir.
Char. Marry thy self to understanding, Andrew; these Women are Errata in all Authors, they're fair to see to, and bound up in Vellam, smooth, white and clear, but their contents are monstrous; they treat of nothing but dull age and diseases. Thou hast not so much wit in thy head, as there is on those shelves, Andrew.
And. I