The Elder Brother. Beaumont Francis

be a Plant, a Beast, a Fish, a Flie, and only make the number of things up, than yield to one foot of Land, if she be ti'd to't.

      Lew. He speaks unhappily.

      Ang. And methinks bravely. This the meer Scholar?

      Eust. You but vex your self, Brother, and vex your study too.

      Char. Go you and study, for 'tis time, young Eustace; you want both man and manners; I've study'd both, although I made no shew on't. Go turn the Volumes over I have read, eat and digest them, that they may grow in thee; wear out the tedious night with thy dim Lamp, and sooner lose the day, than leave a doubt. Distil the sweetness from the Poets Spring, and learn to love; thou know'st not what fair is: Traverse the stories of the great Heroes, the wise and civil lives of good men walk through; thou hast seen nothing but the face of Countrys, and brought home nothing but their empty words: why shouldst thou wear a Jewel of this worth, that hast no worth within thee to preserve her?

        _Beauty clear and fair,

            Where the Air

        Rather like a perfume dwells,

          Where the Violet and the Rose

          The blew Veins in blush disclose,

        And come to honour nothing else.

        Where to live near,

            And planted there,

        Is to live, and still live new;

          Where to gain a favour is

          More than light, perpetual bliss,

        Make me live by serving you.

        Dear again back recall

            To this light,

        A stranger to himself and all;

          Both the wonder and the story

          Shall be yours, and eke the glory;

        I am your servant and your thrall._

      Mir. Speak such another Ode, and take all yet. What say ye to the Scholar now?

      Ang. I wonder; is he your Brother, Sir?

      Eust. Yes, would he were buried; I fear he'll make an Ass of me a younger.

      Ang. Speak not so softly, Sir, 'tis very likely.

      Bri. Come, leave your finical talk, and let's dispatch, Charles.

      Char. Dispatch, what?

      Bri. Why the Land.

      Char. You are deceiv'd, Sir. Now I perceive what 'tis that wooes a woman, and what maintains her when she's woo'd: I'll stop here. A wilful poverty ne'er made a Beauty, nor want of means maintain'd it vertuously: though land and moneys be no happiness, yet they are counted good additions. That use I'll make; he that neglects a blessing, though he want a present knowledge how to use it, neglects himself. May be I have done you wrong, Lady, whose love and hope went hand in hand together; may be my Brother, that has long expected the happy hour, and bless'd my ignorance; pray give me leave, Sir, I shall clear all doubts; why did they shew me you? pray tell me that?

      (Mir. He'll talk thee into a pension for thy knavery.)

      Char. You, happy you, why did you break unto me? The Rosie sugred morn ne'er broke so sweetly: I am a man, and have desires within me, affections too, though they were drown'd a while, and lay dead, till the Spring of beauty rais'd them; till I saw those eyes, I was but a lump, a chaos of confusedness dwelt in me; then from those eyes shot Love, and he distinguish'd, and into form he drew my faculties; and now I know my Land, and now I love too.

      Bri. We had best remove the Maid.

      Char. It is too late, Sir. I have her figure here. Nay frown not, Eustace