_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 think I have not, Sir.
_Char._ No, if thou had'st, thou'ld'st ne'er married a Woman in thy bosom,
they're Cataplasms made o'th' deadly sins: I ne'er saw any yet but mine
own Mother; or if I did, I did regard them but as shadows that pass by of
under creatures.
_And._ Shall I bring you one? He trust you with my own Wife; I would not
have your Brother go beyond ye; they're the prettiest Natural Philosophers
to play with.
_Char._ No, no, they're Opticks to delude mens eyes with.
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