_And_. Put a gold-ring in's nose, and that will cure him.
_Cha_. _Ariadne's_ crown's away too; two main starres
That held it fast are slip'd out. _And_. Send it presently
To _Gallatteo_ the Italian Star-wright
Hee'll set it right againe with little labour.
_Cha_. Thou art a pretty Schollar. _And_. I hope I shall be;
Have I swept bookes so often to know nothing?
_Cha_. I heare thou art married. _And_. It hath pleas'd your father
To match me to a maid of his owne choosing,
I doubt her constellation's loose too, and wants nailing,
And a sweet farme he has given us a mile off Sir.
_Cha_. Marry thy selfe to understanding, _Andrew_,
These women are _Errata_ in all Authours,
They're faire to see to, and bound up in vellam,
Smooth, white and cleare, 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.
_Cha_. No, if thou had'st thould'st nere marryed a woman
In thy bosome, they're Cataplasmes made oth' deadly sins:
I nere saw any yet but mine own mother;
Or if I did, I did regard them but
As shadowes that passe by of under Creatures.
_And_. Shall I bring you one? lie trust you with my owne wife;
I would not have your brother go beyond ye;
Th'are the prittiest natural Philosophers to play with.
_Cha_. No, no, th'are Opticks to delude mens eyes with.
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