SCENE I.—-A STREET.

Enter KNOWELL, at the door of his house.

Know.

A goodly day toward, and a fresh morning.—Brainworm!

Enter Brainworm.

Call up your young master: bid him rise, sir.

Tell him, I have some business to employ him.

Brai. I will, sir, presently.

Know.

But hear you, sirrah,

If he be at his book, disturb him not.

Brai. Very good, sir.

Know.

How happy yet should I esteem myself,

Could I, by any practice, wean the boy

From one vain course of study he affects.

He is a scholar, if a man may trust

The liberal voice of fame in her report,

Of good account in both our Universities,

Either of which hath favoured him with graces:

But their indulgence must not spring in me

A fond opinion that he cannot err.

Myself was once a student, and indeed,

Fed with the self-same humour he is now,

Dreaming on nought but idle poetry,

That fruitless and unprofitable art,

Good unto none, but least to the professors;

Which then I thought the mistress of all knowledge:

But since, time and the truth have waked my judgment.

And reason taught me better to distinguish T

he vain from the useful learnings.

Enter Master STEPHEN.

Cousin Stephen, What news with you, that you are here so early?

Step. Nothing, but e’en come to see how you do, unclo.

Know. That’s kindly done; you are welcome, coz.

Step.

Ay, I know that, sir; I would not have come else.

How does my cousin Edward, uncle?

Know.

O, well, coz; go in and see; I doubt he be scarce stirring yet.

Step. Uncle, afore I go in, can you tell me, an he have e’er a book

of the science of hawking and hunting; I would fain borrow it.

Know. Why, I hope you will not a hawking now, will you?

Step. No, wusse; but I’ll practise against next year, uncle. I have

bought me a hawk, and a hood, and bells and all; I lack nothing

but a book to keep it by.

Know. Oh, most ridiculous!

Step. Nay, look you now, you are angry, uncle:—Why, you know an a

man have not skill in the hawking and hunting languages now-a-days,

I’ll not give a rush for him: they are more studied than the Greek,

or the Latin. He is for no gallant’s company without them; and by

gadslid I scorn it, I, so I do, to be a consort for every humdrum:

hang them, scroyles! there’s nothing in them i’ the world. What do

you talk on it? Because I dwell at Hogsden, I shall keep company

with none but the archers of Finsbury, or the citizens that come a

ducking to Islington ponds! A fine jest, i’ faith! ‘Slid, a

gentleman mun shew himself like a gentleman. Uncle, I pray you be

not angry; I know what I have to do, I trow. I am no novice.

Know.

You are a prodigal, absurd coxcomb, go to!

Nay, never look at me, ‘tis I that speak;

Take’t as you will, sir, I’ll not flatter you.

Have you not yet found means enow to waste

That which your friends have left you, but you must

Go cast away your money on a buzzard,

And know not how to keep it, when you have done?

O, it is comely! this will make you a gentleman!

Well, cousin, well, I see you are e’en past hope

Of all reclaim:—-ay, so; now you are told on’t,

You look another way.

Step. What would you ha’ me do?

Know.

What would I have you do? I’ll tell you, kinsman;

Learn to be wise, and practise how to thrive;

That would I have you do: and not to spend

Your coin on every bauble that you fancy,

Or every foolish brain that humours you.

I would not have you to invade each place,

Nor thrust yourself on all societies,

Till men’s affections, or your own desert,

Should worthily invite you to your rank.

He that is so respectless in his courses,

Oft sells his reputation at cheap market.

Nor would I, you should melt away yourself

In flashing bravery, lest, while you affect

To make a blaze of gentry to the world,

A little puff of scorn extinguish it;

And you be left like an unsavoury snuff,

Whose property is only to offend.

I’d have you sober, and contain yourself,

Not that your sail be bigger than your boat;

But moderate your expenses now, at first,

As you may keep the same proportion still:

Nor stand so much on your gentility,

Which is an airy and mere borrow’d thing,

From dead men’s dust and bones; and none of yours,

Except you make, or hold it.

Enter a Servant.

Who comes here?

Serv. Save you, gentlemen!

Step. Nay, we do not stand much on our gentility, friend; yet you

are welcome: and I assure you mine uncle here is a man of a

thousand a year, Middlesex land. He has but one son in all the

world, I am his next heir, at the common law, master Stephen, as

simple as I stand here, if my cousin die, as there’s hope he will:

I have a pretty living O’ mine own too, beside, hard by here.

Serv. In good time, sir.

Step. In good time, sir! why, and in very good time, sir! You do

not flout, friend, do you?

Servo Not I, sir.

Step. Not you, sir! you were best not, sir; an you should; here be

them can perceive it, and that quickly too; go to: and they can

give it again soundly too, an need be.

Servo Why, sir, let this satisfy you; good faith, I had no such

intent.

Step. Sir, an I thought you had, I would talk with you, and that

presently.

Serv. Good master Stephen, so you may, sir, at your pleasure.

Step. And so I would, sir, good my saucy companion! an you were out

O’ mine uncle’s ground, I can tell you; though I do not stand upon

my gentility neither, in’t.

Know. Cousin, cousin, will this ne’er be left?

Step. Whoreson, basefellow! a mechanical serving-man! By this

cudgel, an ‘twere not for shame, I would—

Know.

What would you do, you peremptory gull?

If you cannot be quiet, get you hence.

You see the honest man demeans himself

Modestly tow’rds you, giving no reply

To your unseason’d, quarrelling, rude fashion;

And still you huff it, with a kind of carriage

As void of wit, as of humanity.

Go, get you in; ‘fore heaven, I am ashamed

Thou hast a kinsman’s interest in me. [Exit Master Stephen.

Serv. I pray, sir, is this master...