Kite. He is a jewel, brother.

I took him of a child, up, at my door,
And christened him; gave him my own name,
Thomas;

Since bred him at the hospital; where proving
A toward imp, I called him home, and taught him
So much, as I have made him my cashier,
And given him, who had none, a surname, Cash;
And find him, in his place, so full of faith,
That I durst trust my life into his hands.

Down. So would not I, in any bastard's, brother,

As, it is like, he is, although I knew
Myself his father. But you said you'd somewhat
To tell me, gentle brother; what is't? what is't?
Kite. Faith, I am very loth to utter it,
As fearing it may hurt your patience :
But that, I know, your judgment is of strength,
Against the nearness of affection-

Down. What need this circumstance? Pray you, be direct.

Kite. I will not say how much I do ascribe
Unto your friendship; nor, in what regard
I hold your love; but, let my past behaviour,
And usage of your sister, but confirm
How well I've been affected to your-

Down. You are too tedious; come to the mat-
ter, the matter.

Kite. Then, without further ceremony, thus.
My brother Well-bred, sir, I know not how,
Of late, is much declined in what he was,
And greatly altered in his disposition.
When he came first to lodge, here, in my house,
Ne'er trust me, if I were not proud of him:
Methought he bare himself in such a fashion,
So full of man, and sweetness in his carriage.
And, what was chief, it shewed not borrowed in
him,

But all he did became him as his own,
And seemed as perfect, proper, and possest,
As breath with life, or colour with the blood:
But now his course is so irregular,

So loose, affected, and deprived of grace,
And he himself, withall, so far fallen off
From that first place, as scarce no note remains,
To tell men's judgments where he lately stood.
He's grown a stranger to all due respect;
Forgetful of his friends; and, not content
To stale himself in all societies,

He makes my house, here, common as a mart,
A theatre, a public receptacle
For giddy humour, and diseased riot:
And here, as in a tavern or a stew,
He and his wild associates spend their hours
In repetition of lascivious jests:

Swear, leap, drink, dance, and revel night by night,

Controul my servants; and, indeed, what not!

Down. 'Sdains, I know not what I should say to him in the whole world! he values me at a cracked three-farthings, for aught I see. It will never out of the flesh, that's bred in the bong! I have told him enough, one would think, if that would serve. Well! he knows what to trust to, for George. Let him spend and spend, and do

mineer, till his heart ache; an' he think to be relieved by me, when he is got into one of your city-ponds, the counters, he has the wrong sow by the ear, i'faith, and claps his dish at a wrong man's door. I'll lay my hand o' my halfpenny, ere I part with it, to fetch him out, I'll assure him. Kite. Nay, good brother, let it not trouble you thus.

Down. 'Sdeath, he mads me--I could eat my very spur-leathers, for anger! But, why are you so tame? Why do not you speak to him, and tell him how he disquiets your house?

Kite. O, there are divers reasons to dissuade,

brother;

But, would yourself vouchsafe to travail in it,
Though but with plain and easy circumstance,
It would both come much better to his sense,
And savour less of stomach, or of passion.
You are his elder brother, and that title
Both gives and warrants your authority,
Which, by your presence seconded, must breed
A kind of duty in him, and regard :
Whereas, if I should intimate the least,
It would but add contempt to his neglect,
Heap worse on ill, make up a pile of hatred,
That, in the rearing, would come tottering down,
And in the ruin bury all our love.

Nay, more than this, brother; if I should speak,
He would be ready, from his heat of humour,
And overflowing of the vapour in him,
To blow the ears of his familiars
With the false breath of telling what disgraces
And low disparagements I had put upon him.
Whilst they, sir, to relieve him in the fable,
Make their loose comments upon every word,
Gesture, or look, I use; mock me all o'er,
From my flat cap, unto my shining shoes;
And, out of their impetuous rioting phantasies,
Beget some slander that shall dwell with me.
And what would that be, think you? Marry, this :
They would give out, because my wife is fair,
Myself but newly married, and my sister
Here sojourning a virgin in my house,
That I were jealous! Nay, as sure as death,
That they would say: and how that I had quar-
relled

My brother purposely, thereby to find
An apt pretext to banish them my house.
Down. Mass, perhaps so: they're like enough
to do it.

Kite. Brother, they would, believe it: so should I,

Like one of these penurious quack-salvers,
But set the bills up to mine own disgrace,
And try experiments upon myself;
Lend scorn and envy opportunity
To stab my reputation and good name.

Enter MATTHEW and BOBADIL.
Mat. I will speak to him-

Bob. Speak to him! Away! by the foot of Pharoah, you shall not; you shall not do him that grace. The time of day to you, gentleman of the house. Is Mr Well-bred stirring

Down. How, then? what should he do? Bob. Gentleman of the house, it is to you: is he within, sir?

Kite. He came not to his lodgings to-night, sir, I assure you.

Down. Why, do you hear? you! Bob. The gentleman-citizen hath satisfied me. I'll talk to no scavenger.

[Exeunt BOBADIL and MATTHEW. Down. How! scavenger! stay, sir, stay! Kite. Nay, brother Downright! Down. 'Heart! stand you away, an' you love

me.

Kite. You shall not follow him, now, I pray you, brother; good faith, you shall not: I will overrule you.

Down. Ha! scavenger! Well, go to, I say little: but, by this good day, (God forgive me I should swear), if I put up so, say, I am the rankest cow that ever pissed. 'Sdains, and I swallow this, I'll ne'er draw my sword in the sight of Fleet-street again, while I live. I'll sit in a barn with Madge Howlet, and catch mice first. Scavenger! 'Heart, and I'll go near to fill that huge tumbrel-slop of yours, with somewhat, an' I have good luck. "Your Garagantua breech cannot carry it away so.

Kite. Oh! do not fret yourself thus ! never

think on it.

Down. These are my brother's consorts, these! these are his comrades, his walking mates! he is a gallant, a cavaliero, too, right hangman cut! Let me not live, an' I could not find in my heart to swinge the whole gang of them, one after another, and begin with him first. I am grieved it should be said he is my brother, and take these courses. Well, as he brews, so he shall drink, for George, again. Yet, he shall hear on it, and that tightly, too, an' I live, in faith.

Kite. But, brother, let your reprehension, then, Run in an easy current, not o'er high Carried with rashness, or devouring choler; But rather use the soft persuading way, More winning than enforcing the consent. Down. Ay, ay, let me alone for that, I warrant you. [Bell rings. Kite. How now! Oh, the bell rings for breakfast.

Brother, I pray you, go in, and bear my wife
Company till I come; I'll but give order
For some dispatch of business to my servants.
[Exit Down.

Enter COB, with a Tankard.

Would I had lost this finger, at a venture,
So Well-bred had ne'er lodged within my house.
Why, it cannot be, where there is such resort
Of wanton gallants, and young revellers,
That any woman should be honest long.
Is't like, that factious beauty will preserve
The public weal of chastity unshaken,
When such strong motives muster, and make
head

Against her single peace? No, no. Beware.
When mutual appetite doth meet to treat,
And spirits of one kind and quality
Come once to parley, in the pride of blood,
It is no slow conspiracy that follows.
Well, to be plain, if I but thought the time
Had answered their affections, all the world
Should not persuade me, but I were a cuckold !
Marry, I hope they have not got that start;
For opportunity hath baulked them yet,
And shall do still, while I have eyes and ears
To attend the impositions of my heart.
My presence shall be as an iron-bar,
'Twixt the conspiring motions of desire:
Yea, every look or glance mine eyes eject,
Shall check occasion, as one doth his slave,
When he forgets the limits of prescription.

Enter Dame KITELY.

Dame. Sister Bridget, pray you fetch down the rose-water above in the closet. Sweetheart, will you come in to breakfast?

Kite. An' she have overheard me now! [Aside. Dame. I pray thee, good muss, we stay for you. Kite. By Heaven, I would not for a thousand angels. [Aside. Dame. What ail you, sweetheart? are you not well? Speak, good muss.

Kite. Troth, my head aches extremely, on a

sudden.

Dame. Oh, the lord!

Kite. How now! what!

Dame. Alas, how it burns! Muss, keep you warm; good truth it is this new disease! there's a number are troubled withal! For love's sake, sweetheart, come in out of the air.

Kite. How simple, and how subtle are her answers!

A new disease, and many troubled with it! Why true! she heard me, all the world to nothing.

Dame. I pray thee, good sweetheart, come in; the air will do you harm, in troth.

Kite. The air! she has me in the wind! Sweetheart, I'll come to you presently; 'twill away,

Dame. Pray Heaven it do.

[Exit.

Kite. A new disease! I know not new or old, But it may well be called poor mortals' plague: For, like a pestilence, it doth infect The houses of the brain. First, it begins Solely to work upon the phantasy, Filling her seat with such pestiferous air As soon corrupts the judgment, and from thence Sends like contagion to the memory; Still to each other giving the infection,

Kno. I cannot lose the thought yet of this letter,

Sent to my son; nor leave to admire the change
Of manners, and the breeding of our youth
Within the kingdom, since myself was one.
When I was young, he lived not in the stews,
Durst have conceived a scorn, and uttered it,
On a grey head: age was authority
Against a buffoon; and a man had then
A certain reverence paid unto his years,
That had none due unto his life. So much
The sanctity of some prevailed for others.
But now we are fallen; youth from their fear,
And age from that, which bred it, good example.
Nay, would ourselves were not the first, even pa-

rents,

That did destroy the hopes in our own children; Or they not learned our vices in their cradles, And suck'd in our ill customs with their milk. Ere all their teeth be born, or they can speak, We make their pallats cunning. The first words We form their tongues with, are licentious jests. Can it call whore? Cry bastard? O, then kiss it, A witty child! Can't swear? The father's darling!

Give it two plums. Nay, rather than it shall learn

No bawdy song, the mother herself will teach it!
But this is in the infancy; the days
Of the long coat: when it puts on the breeches,
It will put off all this. Ay, it is like;
When it is gone into the bone already!
No, no: this dye goes deeper than the coat,
Or shirt, or skin; it stains unto the liver

And heart, in some: and rather than it should not,

Note what we fathers do! look how we live!
What mistresses we keep! at what expence !
In our son's eyes! Where they may handle our
gifts,

Hear our lascivious courtships, see our dalliance,
Taste of the same provoking meats with us,
To ruin of our state! Nay, when our own
Portion is fled, to prey on their remainder,
We call them into fellowship of vice:
Bait 'em with the young chambermaid to seal,
And teach 'em all bad ways to buy affection.
This is one path; but there are millions more,
In which we spoil our own, with leading them.
Well, I thank Heaven, I never yet was he,
That travelled with my son before sixteen,
To shew him the Venetian courtezans,
Nor read the grammar of cheating, I had made,
To my sharp boy at twelve; repeating still
The rule, get money, still get money, boy,
No matter by what means. Money will do

His palate should degenerate, not his manners.
These are the trades of fathers now. However,
My son, I hope, hath met within my threshold
None of these household precedents; which are
strong

And swift, to rape youth to their precipice.
But let the house at home be ne'er so clean
Swept, or kept sweet from filth, nay dust and
cobwebs,

If he will live abroad with his companions,
In dung and leystals, it is worth a fear,
Nor is the danger of conversing less
Than all that I have mentioned of example.

Enter BRAIN-WORM.

Brain. My master! nay, faith, have at you; I am fleshed now, I have sped so well; though I must attack you in a different way.-Worshipful sir, I beseech you, respect the state of a poor soldier! I am ashamed of this base course of life, (God's my comfort) but extremity provokes me to't: what remedy?

Kno. I have not for you.

Brain. By the faith I bear unto truth, gentleman, it is no ordinary custom in me, but only to preserve manhood. _ I protest to you, a man I have been, a man I may be, by your sweet bounty.

Kno. Prithee, good friend, be satisfied.

Brain. Good sir, by that hand you may do the part of a kind gentleman, in lending a poor soldier the price of two cans of beer, a matter of small value; the King of Heaven shall pay you, and I shall rest thankful: sweet worship

Kno. Nay, an' you be so importunateBrain. Oh, tender sir, need will have his course! I was not made to this vile use! Well, the edge of the enemy could not have abated me so much. [He weeps. It's hard, when a man hath served in his prince's cause, to be thus-honourable worship, let me derive small piece of silver from you; it shall not be given in the course of time. By this good ground, I was fain to pawn my rapier last night for a poor supper; Î had sucked the hilt long before, I am a pagan else: sweet honour!

Kno. Believe me, I am taken with some won

der,

To think a fellow of thy outward presence,
Should, in the frame and fashion of his mind,
Be so degenerate and sordid base!
Art thou a man, and sham'st thou not to beg?
To practise such a servile kind of life?
Why, were thy education ne'er so mean,
Having thy limbs, a thousand fairer courses
Offer themselves to thy election.

Either the wars might still supply thy wants,
Or service of some virtuous gentleman,

But would become thee better than to beg!
But men of thy condition feed on sloth,
As doth the beetle on the dung she breeds in,
Not caring how the metal of your minds
Is eaten with the rust of idleness.
Now, afore me, whate'er he be, that should
Relieve a person of thy quality,

While thou insist in this loose desperate course,
I would esteem the sin not thine, but his.
Brain. Faith, sir, I would gladly find some
other course, if so-

Kno. Aye, you would gladly find it, but you will not seek it.

Brain. Alas! sir, where should a man seek? in the wars there's no ascent by desert in these days, but—and for service, would it were as soon purchased as wished for! (the air's my comfort) I know what I would say

Kno. What's thy name?

Brain. Please you, Fitz-Sword, sir.
Kno. Fitz-Sword,

Say that a man should entertain thee now,
Would'st thou be honest, humble, just, and true?
Brain. Sir, by the place and honour of a sol-
dier-

Kno. Nay, nay, I like not those affected oaths!

SCENE I-Stocks-Market.

Speak plainly, man: what think'st thou of my words?

Brain. Nothing, sir, but wish my fortunes were as happy, as my service should be honest.

Kno. Well, follow me; I will prove thee, if thy deeds will carry a proportion to thy words. [Exit.

Brain. Yes, sir, straight: I will but garter my hose. Oh! that my belly were hooped now, for I am ready to burst with laughing! Never was a bottle or bag-pipe fuller. S'lid! was there ever seen a fox in years to betray himself thus? Now I shall be possessed of all his counsels! and by that conduct my young master. Well, he is resolved to prove my honesty; faith, and I am resolved to prove his patience. Oh, I shall abuse him intolerably! This small piece of service will bring him clean out of love with the soldier for ever. He will never come within the sight of a red coat, or a musket-rest again. He will hate the musters at Mile-end to his dying day. It's no matter; let the world think ne a bad counterfeit, if I cannot give him the slip at an instant. Why, this is better than to have staid his jour ney! Well, I will follow him. Oh, how I long to be employed!

Enter MATTHEW, WELL-BRED, and BOBADIL. Mat. Yes, faith, sir! we were at your lodging to seek you too.

Well. Oh, I came not there to-night. Bob. Your brother delivered us as much. Weil. Who? My brother Down-right? Bob. He. Mr Well-bred, I know not in what kind you hold me; but let me say to you this: as sure as honour, I esteem it so much out of the sunshine of reputation, to throw the least beam of regard upon such a

Well. Sir, I must hear no ill words of my brother.

Bob. I protest to you, as I have a thing to be saved about me, I never saw any gentleman-like part

Well. Good captain, [faces about.] to some other discourse.

Bob. With your leave, sir, an' there were no more men living upon the face of the earth, I should not fancy him, by St George.

Mat. Troth, nor I; he is of a rustical cut, I know not how he doth not carry himself like a gentleman of fashion

Well. Oh, Master Matthew, that is a grace peculiar but to a few, quos æquus amavit Jupiter. Mat. I understand you, sir.

Enter Young KNO'WELL and STEPHEN. Well. No question you do, or you do not, sir. Ned Kno'well! By my soul, welcome! How dost thou, sweet spirit, my genius? 'Slid, I shall love

[Exit.

Apollo and the mad Thespian girls the better, while I live for this, my dear fury. Now I see there's some love in thee! Sirrah, these be the two I writ to thee of. Nay, what a drowsy humour is this now! Why dost thou not speak?

E. Kno. Oh, you are a fine gallant; you sent me a rare letter.

Wet. Why, was it not rare?

E. Kno. Yes, I'll be sworn; I was never guilty of reading the like. Match it in all Pliny's epistles, and I'll have my judgment burned in the ear for a rogue; make much of thy vein, for it is inimitable. But I marvel what camel it was that had the carriage of it, for, doubtless, he was no ordinary beast that brought it.

Well. Why?

E. Kno. Why, sayest thou? Why, dost thou think that any reasonable creature, especially in the morning, the sober time of the day too, could have mistaken my father for me?

Well. 'Slid, you jest, I hope.

E. Kno. Indeed, the best use we can turn it to, is to make a jest on't now; but I'll assure you, my father had the full view of your flourishing style, before I saw it.

Well. What a dull slave was this! But, sirrah, what said he to it, i'faith?

E. Kno. Nay, I know not what he said: but I have a shrewd guess what he thought. Well. What, what?

E. Kno. Marry, that thou art some strange, dissolute young fellow, and I not a grain or two better, for keeping thee company.

Well. Tut! that thought is like the moon in