Char. And must my Brother have all?
Mir. All that your Father has.
Char. And that fair woman too?
Mir. That woman also.
Char. He has enough then. May I not see her sometimes, and call her sister? I will do him no wrong.
Mir. This makes me mad, I could now cry for anger: these old Fools are the most stubborn and the wilfullest Coxcombs; Farewell, and fall to your Book, forget your Brother: you are my Heir, and I'le provide y'a Wife: I'le look upon this marriage, though I hate it. [Exit.
Enter Brisac.
Bri. Where is my Son?
And. There, Sir, casting a Figure what chopping children his Brother shall have.
Bri. He does well. How do'st, Charles? still at thy Book?