_And._ Their names! he has 'em as perfect as his _Pater Noster_; but
that's nothing, h'as read them over leaf by leaf three thousand times; but
here's the wonder, though their weight would sink a Spanish Carrock,
without other Ballast, he carrieth them all in his head, and yet he walks
upright.

_But._ Surely he has a strong brain.

_And._ If all thy pipes of Wine were fill'd with Books, made of the Barks
of Trees, or Mysteries writ in old moth-eaten Vellam, he would sip thy
Cellar quite dry, and still be thirsty: Then for's Diet, he eats and
digests more Volumes at a meal, than there would be Larks (though the Sky
should fall) devoured in a month in _Paris_. Yet fear not Sons o'the
Buttery and Kitchin, though his learn'd stomach cannot be appeas'd; he'll
seldom trouble you, his knowing stomach contemns your Black-jacks,
_Butler_, and your Flagons; and _Cook_, thy Boil'd, thy Rost, thy Bak'd.

_Cook._ How liveth he?

_And._ Not as other men do, few Princes fare like him; he breaks his fast
with _Aristotle_, dines with _Tully_, takes his watering with the _Muses_,
sups with _Livy_, then walks a turn or two in _Via Lactea_, and (after six
hours conference with the Stars) sleeps with old _Erra Pater_.

_But._ This is admirable.

_And._ I'le tell you more hereafter. Here's my old Master, and another old
ignorant Elder; I'le upon 'em.