And. Send it presently to Galateo, the Italian Star-wright, he'll set it right again with little labour.
Char. Thou art a pretty Scholar.
And. I hope I shall be; have I swept Books so often to know nothing?
Char. I hear thou art married.
And. It hath pleas'd your Father to match me to a Maid of his own chusing; I doubt her Constellation's loose too, and wants nailing; and a sweet Farm he has given us a mile off, Sir.
Char. Marry thy self to understanding, Andrew; these Women are Errata in all Authors, they're fair to see to, and bound up in Vellam, smooth, white and clear, 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.
Char. No, if thou had'st, thou'ld'st ne'er married a Woman in thy bosom, they're Cataplasms made o'th' deadly sins: I ne'er saw any yet but mine own Mother; or if I did, I did regard them but as shadows that pass by of under creatures.
And. Shall I bring you one? He trust you with my own Wife; I would not have your Brother go beyond ye; they're the prettiest Natural Philosophers to play with.
Char. No, no, they're Opticks to delude mens eyes with. Does my younger Brother speak any Greek yet, Andrew?