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.
Pages:
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25