And. He flung away his booke. Mir. I like that in him, Would he had flung away his dulness too, And speak to her. Cha. And must my brother have all?
Mir. All that your father has. Cha. And that faire woman too?
Mir. That woman also. Cha. He has enough then
May I not see her somtimes, and call her Sister?
I will doe him no wrong. Mir. This makes me mad
I could now cry for anger; these old fooles
Are the most stubborn and the wilfullest Coxcombs—
Farewil, and fall to your booke, forget your brother;
You are my heire, and Ile provide y'a wife;
Ile looke upon this marriage, though I hate it. Exit.
Enter Brisac.
Where is my son? And. There Sir, casting a figure
What chopping children his brother shall have.
Bri. He do's well; How do'st Charles? still at thy book?
And. Hee's studying now Sir, who shall be his father.
Bri. Peace you rude Knave—Come hither Charles be merry.
Cha. I thank you, I am busie at my book, Sir.
Bri. You must put your hand my Charles, as I would have you Unto a little peece of parchment here; Onely your name, you write a reasonable hand.