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.