_Egre._ Could he not stay till the Masque was past? w'are ready. What a
scurvy trick's this?
_Mir._ O you may vanish, perform it at some Hall, where the Citizens Wives
may see't for Six-pence a piece, and a cold Supper. Come, let's go,
_Charles_. And now, my noble Daughter, I'le sell the Tiles of my House,
e're thou shalt want, Wench. Rate up your Dinner, Sir, and sell it cheap:
some younger Brother will take't up in Commodities. Send you joy, Nephew
_Eustace_; if you study the Law, keep your great Pippin-pies, they'll go
far with ye.
_Char._ I'd have your blessing.
_Bri._ No, no, meet me no more. Farewel, thou wilt blast mine eyes else.
_Char._ I will not.
_Lew._ Nor send not you for Gowns.
_Ang._ I'll wear course Flannel first.
_Bri._ Come, let's go take some counsel.
_Lew._ 'Tis too late.
_Bri._ Then stay and dine; it may be we shall vex 'em. [_Exeunt._
_ACTUS QUARTUS. SCENA PRIMA._
_Enter_ Brisac, Eustace, Egremont, Cowsy.
_Brisac._ Ne'er talk to me, you are no men but Masquers; shapes, shadows,
and the signs of men, Court bubbles, that every breath or breaks or blows
away. You have no souls, no metal in your bloods, no heat to stir ye when
ye have occasion: frozen dull things, that must be turn'd with Leavers.
Are you the Courtiers, and the travell'd Gallants? the spritely Fellows
that the people talk of? Ye have no more spirit than three sleepy sopes.
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