_ Good morrow, Monsieur _Miramont_.
_Mir._ Good Night-caps keep brains warm, or Maggots will breed in 'em.
Well, _Charles_, thou shalt not want to buy thee Books yet, the fairest in
thy Study are my gift, and the University of _Lovain_, for thy sake, hath
tasted of my bounty; and to vex the old doting Fool thy Father, and thy
Brother, they shall not share a _Solz_ of mine between them; nay more,
I'll give thee eight thousand Crowns a year, in some high strain to write
my Epitaph.
ACTUS II. SCENA II.
_Enter_ Eustace, Egremont, Cowsy.
_Eust._ How do I look now, my Elder Brother? Nay, 'tis a handsome Suit.
_Cow._ All Courtly, Courtly.
_Eust._ I'll assure ye, Gentlemen, my Tailor has travel'd, and speaks as
lofty Language in his Bills too; the cover of an old Book would not shew
thus. Fie, fie; what things these Academicks are! these Book-worms, how
they look!
_Egre._ They're meer Images, no gentle motion or behaviour in 'em; they'll
prattle ye of _Primum Mobile_, and tell a story of the state of Heaven,
what Lords and Ladies govern in such Houses, and what wonders they do when
they meet together, and how they spit Snow, Fire, and Hail, like a Jugler,
and make a noise when they are drunk, which we call Thunder.
_Cow._ They are the sneaking'st things, and the contemptiblest; such
Small-beer brains, but ask 'em any thing out of the Element of their
understanding, and they stand gaping like a roasted Pig: do they know what
a Court is, or a Council, or how the affairs of Christendom are manag'd?
Do they know any thing but a tired Hackney? and they cry absurd as the
Horse understood 'em.
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