THO' need make many poets, and some such
As art and nature have not bettered much;
Yet ours, for want, hath not so loved the stage,
As he dare serve the ill customs of the age,
Or purchase your delight at such a rate,
As, for it, he himself must justly hate:
To make a child now swaddled, to proceed
Man, and then shoot up in one beard and weed,
Past three-score years: or, with three rusty
swords,

And help of some few foot and half-foot words,
Fight over York and Lancaster's long jars,
And in the tiring-house bring wounds to scars.
He rather prays, you will be pleased to see
One such to-day, as other plays should be;
Where neither chorus wafts you o'er the seas,
Nor creaking throne comes down, the boys to
please;

Nor nimble squib is seen, to make afear'd
The gentlewomen; nor rolled bullet heard
To say, it thunders; nor tempestuous drum
Rumbles, to tell you when the storm doth come;
But deeds, and language, such as men do use,
And persons, such as comedy would choose,
When she would shew an image of the times,
And sport with human follies, not with crimes;
Except we make 'em such, by loving still
Our popular errors, when we know they're ill.
I mean such errors as you'll all confess,
By laughing at them, they deserve no less:
Which, when you heartily do, there's hope left
then,

You, that have so graced monsters, may like

men.

Kno. 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 have 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
The vain from the useful learnings――

Enter Master STEPHEN.

Cousin Stephen!

What news with you, that you are here so carly? Step. Nothing, but e'en come to see how you do, uncle.

Kno. That's kindly done, you are welcome, coz. Step. Ay, I know that, sir. I would not ha' come else. How doth my cousin Edward, uncle? Kno. 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 sciences of hawking and hunting? I would fain borrow it.

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

Step. No wosse, but I'll practise against the 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.

Kno. O, 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-adays, I'll not give a rush for 'em. They are more studied than the Greek, or the Latin. He is for no gallant's company without them. And by Gad's lid I scorn it, I, so I do, to be a consort for every hum-drum; hang them scroyls, there's nothing in them in 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.

Kno. 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 kite,

And know not how to keep it, when you've done? O, 'tis 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're told on it, You look another way.

Step. What would you ha' me do!

Kno. 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,
On 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 expences now (at first),
As you may keep the same proportion still.
Nor stand so much on your gentility,
Which is an airy, mere borrowed thing,
From dead men's dust and bones; and none of
yours,

Except you make, or hold it. Who comes here?
Enter a Servant.

Serv. Save you, gentlemen.

Step. Nay, we do not stand much on our gen tility, 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 is hope he will). I have a pretty living o' my 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? Serv. Not I, sir.

Step. Not you, sir! you were not best, 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.

Serv. 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 of my uncle's ground, I can tell you; though I do not stand upon my gentility neither, in it.

Kno. Cousin! cousin! will this ne'er be left? Step. Whoreson, base fellow? a mechanical serving man? By this cudgel, an' 'twere not for shame, I would

Kno. What would you do, you peremptory gull ?
If you cannot be quiet, get you hence.
You see the honest man demeans himself
Modestly towards you, giving no reply

To your unseasoned, 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 STEPHEN. Serv. I pray, sir, is this master Kno'well's house?

Kno. Yes, marry, is it, sir. Serv. I should inquire for a gentleman here, one master Edward Kno'well: do you know any such, sir, I pray you?

Kno. I should forget myself else, sir. Serv. Are you the gentleman? cry your mercy, sir: I was required by a gentleman in the city, as I rode out at this end of the town, to deliver you this letter, sir.

Kno. To me, sir? What do you mean? Pray you remember your court'sie. [To his most selected friend, master EDWARD KNO'WELL.] What might the gentleman's name be, sir, that sent it? Nay, pray you be covered.

Serv. One master Well-bred, sir.
Kno. Master Well-bred! A young gentleman,

is he not?

Serv. The same, sir; master Kitely married his sister: the rich merchant in the Old Jewry. Kno. You say very true. Brain-worm!

Brain. Sir.

Enter BRAIN-WORM.

Kno. Make this honest friend drink here.Pray you go in.

[Exeunt BRAIN-WORM and Servant. This letter is directed to my son : Yet I am Edward Kno'well too, and may, With the safe conscience of good manners, use The fellow's error to my satisfaction.

Well, I will break it ope (old men are curious) Be it but for the style's sake, and the phrase, To see if both do answer my son's praises, Who is almost grown the idolater

Of this young Well-bred; What have we here? What's this?

6

[The Letter.]

Why, Ned, I beseech thee, hast thou fore'sworn all thy friends i' the Old Jewry? or dost ' thou think us all Jews that inhabit there? Yet 'if thou dost, come over, and but see our frip

pery; change an old shirt for a whole smock 'with us: Do not conceive that antipathy be'tween us and Hogsden, as was between Jews ' and hog's-flesh. Leave thy vigilant father alone, to number over his green apricots, evening and morning, o' the north-west wall: an' I had been his son, I had saved him the labour long since; 'if taking in all the young wenches that pass by, ' at the back door, and coddling every kernel of 'the fruit for them would have served. But pri-. thee, come over to me, quickly, this morning: 'I have such a present for thee! Our Turkey company never sent the like to the Grand Sig'nior. One is a rhimer, sir, o' your own batch, your own leven; but doth think himself poet'major o' the town; willing to be shewn, and worthy to be seen.-The other-I will not venture his description with you till you come, because I would have you make hither with an appetite. If the worst of them be not worth your journey, draw your bill of charges, as unconscionable as any Guild-hall verdict will give it you, and you shall be allowed your viaticum.

6

"From the Windmill?

Brain. Sir.

Kno. Is the fellow gone, that brought this letter?
Brain. Yes, sir, a pretty while since.
Kno. And where's your young master?
Brain. In his chamber, sir.

Kno. He spake not with the fellow, did he?
Brain. No, sir, he saw him not.

Kno. Take you this letter, and deliver it to my

son;

Nor practise any violent means to stay
The unbridled course of youth in him; for that,
Restrained, grows more impatient; and in kind,
Like to the eager, but the gen'rous greyhound,
Who, ne'er so little from his game withheld,
Turns head, and leaps up at his holder's throat.
There is a way of winning, more by love,
And urging of the modesty, than fear:
Force works on servile natures, not the free.
He, that's compelled to goodness, may be good;
But, 'tis but for that fit: where others, drawn
By softness, and example, get a habit.
Then, if they stray, but warn them; and the same
They would for virtue do, they'll do for shame.
[Exeunt.

SCENE II.-Young KNO'WELL's Study.
Enter EDWARD KNO'WELL and BRAIN-WORM.
E. Kno. Did he open it, say'st thou?
Brain. Yes, o' my word, sir, and read the con-

tents.

E. Kno. That scarce contents me. What countenance, pray thee, made he in the reading of it? Was he angry, or pleased?

Brain. Nay, sir, I saw him not read it, nor open it, I assure your worship.

E. Kno. No! how know'st thou, then, that he did either!

tell'st me on't. How dost thou like my leg, Brain-worm?

Brain. A very good leg, master Stephen; but the woollen stocking does not recommend it so well.

Step. Foh, the stockings be good enough now summer is coming on, for the dust: I will have a pair of silk against winter, that I go to dwell in the town. I think my leg would shew in a silk hose.

Brain. Believe me, master Stephen, rarely well. Step. In sadness, I think it would; I have a reasonable good leg.

Brain. You have an excellent good leg, master Stephen; but I cannot stay to praise it longer now; and I am very sorry for't. [Exit. Step. Another time will serve, Brain-worm.--Gra-mercy for this.

Enter Young Kno’well.

E. Kno. Ha, ha, ha!

Step. 'Slid! I hope he laughs not at me; an' he do

E. Kno. Here was a letter, indeed, to be intercepted by a man's father, and do him good with him! He cannot but think most virtuously both of me and the sender, sure, that make the careful coster-monger of him in our familiar epistles. Well, if he read this with patience, I'll be gelt, and troll ballads for Mr John Trundle yonder, the rest of my mortality. It is true, and likely, my father may have as much patience as another man; for he takes much physic; and oft taking

worm.

[Exit.

Enter Master STEPHEN. Step. Oh! Brain-worm, did'st thou not see a fellow here, in a what sha'-call him doublet? He brought mine uncle a letter e'en now.

Brain. Yes, master Stephen, what of him? Step. Oh! I ha' such a mind to beat him where is he? can'st thou tell?

Brain. Faith, he is not of that mind: he is gone, master Stephen.

Step. Gone! which way? when went he? how long since?

Brain. He is rid hence. He took horse at the street door.

Step. And I staid i' the fields! whoreson, scanderberg rogue! O that I had but a horse to fetch him back again!

Brain. Why, you may ha' my mistress's gelding to save your longing, sir.

Step. But I ha' no boots, that's the spite on't. Brain. Why, a fine wisp of hay, rolled hard, master Stephen.

Step. No, faith, it's no boot to follow him now; let him e'en go and hang. Prithee, help to truss me a little. He does so vex me

Brain. You'll be worse vexed when you are trussed, master Stephen. Best keep unbraced, and walk yourself till you be cold; your choler may founder you else.

Step. By my faith, and so I will, now thou

your packet, master Wellbred, had arrived at him in such a minute of his patience; then we had known the end of it, which now is doubtful, and threatens-what? my wise cousin! nay, then, I'll furnish our feast with one gull more toward the mess. He writes to me of a brace, and here's one, that's three! O, for a fourth! Fortune! if ever thou'lt use thine eyes, I entreat thee

Step. O, now I see who he laughed at. He laughed at somebody in that letter. By this good light, an' he had laughed at me

E. Kno. How now, cousin Stephen, melancholy?

Step. Yes, a little. I thought you had laughed at me, cousin.

E. Kno. Why, what an' I had, coz, what would you ha' done?

Step. By this light, I would ha' told mine uncle.

E. Kno. Nay, if you would ha' told your uncle, I did laugh at you, coz. Step. Did you, indeed?

E. Kno. Yes, indeed.
Step. Why, then-

E. Kno. What then?

Step. I am satisfied; it is sufficient.

E. Kno. Why, be so, gentle coz. And I pray you, let me entreat a courtesy of you. I am sent for this morning, by a friend i' the Old Jewry, to come to him: 'tis but crossing o'er the field to