_Lew._ Will your brother
Passe over his land to, to your son _Eustace_?
You know he has no heire. _Mir._ He will be flead first,
And horse-collars made of 's skin! _Bri._ let him alone,
A wilful man; my state shall serve the turne, Sir.
And how does your Daughter? _Lew._ Ready for the houre,
And like a blushing Rose that staies the pulling.
_Bri._ To morrow, then's the day. _Lew._ Why then to morrow
Ile bring the Girle; get you the Writings ready.
_Mir._ But hark you Monsieur, have you the vertuous conscience
To help to robb an heire, an Elder Brother,
Of that which Nature and the Law flings on him?
You were your fathers 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 deale unworthily in these things;
You'l say hee's none of yours, he's his son;
And he will say, he is no son to inherit
Above a shelfe of Bookes; Why did he get him?
Why was he brought up to write and reade, and know things?
Why was he not like his father, a dumbe Justice?
A flat dull peece of flegme, shap'd like a man,
A reverend Idoll in a peece of arras?
Can you lay disobedience, want of manners,
Or any capital crime to his charge? _Lew._ I doe not,
Nor do not weigh your words, they bite not me, Sir;
This man must answer. _Bri._ I have don't already.
And giv'n sufficient reason to secure me;
And so good morrow brother to your patience.
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