 | The Elder Brother |  |
Scena Prima.
Enter Miramount, Brisac.Mir.
Nay, Brother, Brother.
Bri.
Pray, Sir, be not moved, I meddle with
no business but mine own, and in mine own 'tis reason
should govern.
Mir.
But how to govern then, and understand, Sir, and
be as wise as y'are hasty, though you be my Brother, and
from one bloud sprung, I must tell ye heartily and home
too.
Bri.
What, Sir?
Mir.
What I grieve to find, you are a fool, and an old
fool, and that's two.
Bri.
We'll part'em, if you please.
Mir.
No, they're entail'd to 'em. Seek to deprive an honest
noble Spirit, your eldest Son, Sir, and your very Image,
(but he's so like you, that he fares the worse for't) because
he loves his Book, and dotes on that, and only studies how
to know things excellent, above the reach of such course
Brains as yours, such muddy Fancies, that never will know
farther than when to cut your Vines, and cozen Merchants,
and choak your hide-bound Tenants with musty Harvests.
Bri.
You go too fast.
Mir.
I'am not come to my pace yet. Because h' has
made his study all his pleasure, and is retir'd into his Contemplation,
not medling with the dirt and chaff of Nature,
that makes the spirit of the mind mud too; therefore must
he be flung from his inheritance? must he be dispossess'd,
and Monsieur Gingle boy his younger Brother—
Bri.
You forget your self.
Mar.
Because h'has been at Court, and learn'd new
Tongues, and how to speak a tedious piece of nothing; to
vary his face as Sea-men do their compass, to worship Images
of gold and silver, and fall before the She calves of the
season; therefore must he jump into his Brother's Land?
Bri.
Have you done yet, and have you spoke enough it
praise of Learning, Sir?
Mir.
Never enough.
Bri.
But, Brother, do you know what Learning is?
Mir.
It is not to be a Justice of Peace as you are, and
palter out your time i'th' penal Statutes. To hear the
curious Tenets controverted between a Protestant Constable,
and Jesuite Cobler; to pick Natural Philosophy out
of Bawdry, when your Worship's pleas'd to correctifie a
Lady; nor 'tis not the main Moral of blind Justice, (which
is deep Learning) when your Worships Tenants bring a
light cause, and heavy Hens before ye, both fat and feeble,
a Goose or Pig; and then you'll sit like equity with both
hands weighing indifferently the state o'th' question. These
are your Quodlibets, but no Learning, Brother.
Bri.
You are so parlously in love with Learning, that I'd
be glad to know what you understand, Brother; I'm sure
you have read all Aristotle.
Mir.
Faith no; but I believe I have a learned faith, Sir,
and that's it makes a Gentleman of my sort; though I can
speak no Greek, I love the sound of't, it goes so thund'ring
as it conjur'd Devils; Charles speaks it loftily, and if thou
wert a man, or had'st but ever heard of Homers Iliads, Hesiod,
and the Greek Poets, thou wouldst run mad, and hang thy
self for joy th'hadst such a Gentleman to be thy Son: O he
has read such things to me!
Bri.
And you do understand 'em, Brother?
Mir.
I tell thee, No, that's not material; the sound's
sufficient to confirm an honest man: Good Brother Brisac,
does your young Courtier, that wears the fine Cloaths, and
is the excellent Gentleman, (the Traveller, the Soldier, as
you think too) understand any other power than his Tailor?
or knows what motion is more than an Horse race? What
the Moon means, but to light him home from Taverns? or
the comfort of the Sun is, but to wear slash'd clothes in?
kiss the hand, and cry, sweet Lady? Say it had been at
Rome, and seen the Reliques, drunk your Verdea Wine,
And rid at Naples, brought home a Box of Venice Treacle
with it, to cure young Wenches that have eaten Ashes:
Must this thing therefore?—
Bri.
Yes Sir, this thing must; I will not trust my Land
to one so sotted, so grown like a Disease unto his Study;
he that will fling off all occasions and cares, to make him
understand what state is, and how to govern it, must, by
that reason, be flung himself aside from managing. My
younger Boy is a fine Gentleman.
Mir.
He is an Ass, a piece of Ginger-bread, gilt over to
please foolish Girls puppets.
Bri.
You are my elder Brother.
Mir.
So I had need, and have an elder Wit, thou'dst
shame us all else. Go to, I say, Charles shall inherit.
Bri.
I say, no, unless Charles had a Soul to understand it;
can he manage six thousand Crowns a year out of the Metaphysics?
or can all his learn'd Astronomy look to my
Vineyards? Can the drunken old Poets make up my Vines?
(I know they can drink 'em) or your excellent Humanists
Tell 'em the Merchants for my best advantage? Can History
cut my Hay, or get my Corn in? And can Geometry
vend it in the Market? Shall I have my sheep kept with a
Jacobs-staff now? I wonder you will magnifie this madman,
you that are old, and should understand.
Mir.
Should, say'st thou? thou monstrous piece of ignorance
in Office! thou that hast no more knowledge than
thy Clerk infuses, thy dapper Clerk, larded with ends of
Latin, and he no more than custom of offences. Thou unreprieveable
Dunce! that thy formal Bandstrings, thy
Ring, nor pomander cannot expiate for, dost thou tell me I
should? I'le pose thy Worship in thine own Library and Almanack,
which thou art daily poring on, to pick out days
of iniquity to cozen fools in, and Full Moons to cut Cattle:
dost thou taint me, that have run over Story, Poetry,
Humanity?
Bri.
As a cold nipping shadow does o'er ears of Corn,
and leave 'em blasted, put up your anger, what I'll do,
I'll do.
Mir.
Thou shalt not do.
Bri.
I will.
Mir.
Thou art an Ass then, a dull old tedious Ass; th'
art ten times worse, and of less credit than Dunce Hollingshead
the Englishman, that writes of Shows and Sheriffs.
Enter Lewis.
Bri.
Well, take your pleasure, here's one I must talk
with.
Lew.
Good-day, Sir.
Bri.
Fair to you, Sir.
Lew.
May I speak w'ye?
Bri.
With all my heart, I was waiting on your goodness.
Lew.
Good morrow, Monsieur Miramont.
Mir.
O sweet Sir, keep your good morrow to cool your
Worships pottage; a couple of the worlds fools met together
to raise up dirt and dunghils.
Lew.
Are they drawn?
Bri.
They shall be ready, Sir, within these two hours;
and Charles set his hand.
Lew.
'Tis necessary; for he being a joint purchaser,
though your Estate was got by your own industry, unless
he seal to the Conveyance, it can be of no validity.
Bri.
He shall be ready and do it willingly.
Mir.
He shall be hang'd first.
Bri.
I hope your Daughter likes.
Lew.
She loves him well, Sir; young Eustace is a bait to
catch a Woman, a budding spritely Fellow; y'are resolv'd
then, that all shall pass from Charles?
Bri.
All, all, he's nothing; a bunch of Books shall be
his Patrimony, and more than he can manage too.
Lew.
Will your Brother pass over his Land to your
son Eustace? you know he has no Heir.
Mir.
He will be flead first, and Horse-collars made of's
skin.
Bri.
Let him alone, a wilful man; my Estate shall serve
the turn, Sir. And how does your Daughter?
Lew.
Ready for the hour, and like a blushing Rose that
stays the pulling.
Bri.
To morrow then's the day.
Lew.
Why then to morrow I'll bring the Girl; get you
the Writings ready.
Mir.
But hark you, Monsieur, have you the virtuous
conscience to help to rob an Heir, an Elder Brother, of
that which Nature and the Law flings on him? You were
your Father's 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 deal unworthily in these things; you'll
say he's none of yours, he's his Son; and he will say, he
is no Son to inherit above a shelf of Books: Why did he
get him? why was he brought up to write and read, and
know these things? why was he not like his Father, a
dumb Justice? a flat dull piece of phlegm, shap'd like a
man, a reverend Idol in a piece of Arras? Can you lay
disobedience, want of manners, or any capital crime to
his charge?
Lew.
I do not, nor do weigh your words, they bite not
me, Sir; this man must answer.
Bri.
I have don't already, and given sufficient reason
to secure me: and so good morrow, Brother, to your patience.
Lew.
Good morrow, Monsieur Miramont.
Mir.
Good Night caps keep brains warm, or Maggots
will breed in 'em. Well, Charles, thou shalt not want to
buy thee Books yet, the fairest in thy Study are my gift,
and the University of Lovain, for thy sake, hath tasted
of my bounty; and to vex the old doting Fool thy Father,
and thy Brother, they shall not share a Sole of mine between
them; nay more, I'll give thee eight thousand Crowns a
year, in some high strain to write my Epitaph.
| The Elder Brother | |