_Lew._ Will your Brother pass over his Land to your son _Eustace_? you
know he has no Heir.
_Mir._ He will be flead first, and Horse-collars made of's skin.
_Bri._ Let him alone, a wilful man; my Estate shall serve the turn, Sir.
And how does your Daughter?
_Lew._ Ready for the hour, and like a blushing Rose that stays the
pulling.
_Bri._ To morrow then's the day.
_Lew._ Why then to morrow I'll bring the Girl; get you the Writings ready.
_Mir._ But hark you, Monsieur, have you the virtuous conscience to help to
rob an Heir, an Elder Brother, of that which Nature and the Law flings on
him? You were your Father's eldest Son, I take it, and had his Land; would
you had had his wit too, or his discretion, to consider nobly, what 'tis
to deal unworthily in these things; you'll say he's none of yours, he's
his Son; and he will say, he is no Son to inherit above a shelf of Books:
Why did he get him? why was he brought up to write and read, and know
these things? why was he not like his Father, a dumb Justice? a flat dull
piece of phlegm, shap'd like a man, a reverend Idol in a piece of Arras?
Can you lay disobedience, want of manners, or any capital crime to his
charge?
_Lew._ I do not, nor do weigh your words, they bite not me, Sir; this man
must answer.
_Bri._ I have don't already, and given sufficient reason to secure me: and
so good morrow, Brother, to your patience.
_Lew.
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