_ 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 a joint purchaser, though your Estate
was got by your own industry, unless he seal to the Conveyance, it can be
of no validity.
_Bri._ He shall be ready and do it willingly.
_Mir._ He shall be hang'd first.
_Bri._ I hope your Daughter likes.
_Lew._ She loves him well, Sir; young _Eustace_ is a bait to catch a
Woman, a budding spritely Fellow; y'are resolv'd then, that all shall pass
from _Charles_?
_Bri._ All, all, he's nothing; a bunch of Books shall be his Patrimony,
and more than he can manage too.
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