_And_. If all thy pipes of wine were fill'd with bookes
Made of the barkes of trees, or mysteries writ
In old moth-eaten vellam, he would sip thy Celler
Quite dry, and still be thirsty; Then for's Diet,
He eats and digests more Volumes at a meal,
Than there would be Larkes (though the sky should fall)
Devowred in a moneth in _Paris_, yet feare not
Sons oth' buttry, and kitchin, though his learn'd stomack
Cannot b' appeas'd; Hee'll seldom trouble you,
His knowing stomack contemnes your blacke Jacks, _Butler_,
And your Flagons; and _Cook_ thy boyl'd, thy roast, thy bak'd.
_Co._ How liveth he? _And._ Not as other men doe,
Few Princes fare like him; He breakes his fast
With _Aristotle_, dines with _Tully_, takes
His watering with the Muses, sups with _Livie_,
Then walkes a turne or two in _via lactea_,
And (after six houres conference with the starres)
Sleepes with old _Erra Pater_. _But._ This is admirable.
_And._ I'le tell you more hereafter, here's my old Master
And another old ignorant Elder, Ile upon 'em.
_Enter_ Brisac, Lewis.
What _Andrew_? welcome, where's my _Charles_! speake _Andrew_,
Where didst thou leave thy Master? _And._ Contemplating
The number of the sands in the high way,
And from that, purposes to make a judgement
Of the remainder in the Sea; He is Sir,
In serious study, and will lose no minute,
Nor out of 's pace to knowledge. _Lew._ This is strange.
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