Bri. You'll stay and dine though.
Mir. All your meat smells musty, your Table will shew nothing to content me.
Bri. I'le answer you here's good meat.
Mir. But your sauce is scurvie, it is not season'd with the sharpness of discretion.
Eust. It seems your anger is at me, dear Uncle.
Mir. Thou art not worth my anger, th'art a Boy, a lump o'thy Father's lightness, made of nothing but antick cloathes and cringes; look in thy head, and 'twill appear a foot-ball full of fumes and rotten smoke. Lady, I pity you; you are a handsome and a sweet young Lady, and ought to have a handsom man yok'd t'ye, an understanding too; this is a Gimcrack, that can get nothing but new fashions on you; for say he have a thing shap'd like a child, 'twill either prove a Tumbler or a Tailor.
Eust. These are but harsh words, Uncle.
Mir. So I mean 'em. Sir, you play harsher play w'your elder Brother.
Eust. I would be loth to give you.
Mir. Do not venture, I'le make your wedding cloaths sit closer t'ye then; I but disturb you, I'le go see my Nephew.