_Bri_. Nor will you take care of my Estate?

_Char_. But in my wishes; for know, Sir, that the wings on which my Soul
is mounted, have long since born her too high, to stoop to any Prey that
soars not upwards. Sordid and dunghill minds, compos'd of earth, in that
gross Element fix all their happiness; but purer Spirits, purged and
refin'd, shake off that clog of humane frailty; give me leave t'enjoy my
self; that place that does contain my Books (the best Compa[n]ions) is to
me a glorious Court, where hourly I converse with the old Sages and
Philosophers, and sometimes for variety, I confer with Kings and Emperors,
and weigh their Counsels, calling their Victories (if unjustly got) unto a
strict accompt, and in my phancy, deface their ill-plac'd Statues; can I
then part with such constant pleasures, to embrace uncertain vanities? No,
be it your care t'augment your heap of wealth; it shall be mine t'increase
in knowledge--Lights there for my Study-- [_Exit._

_Bri_. Was ever man that had reason thus transported from all sense and
feeling of his proper good? It vexes me, and if I found not comfort in my
young _Eustace_, I might well conclude my name were at a period!

_Lew_. He is indeed, Sir, the surer base to build on.

_Enter_ Eustace, Egremont, Cowsy, _and_ Andrew.

_Bri_. Eustace.

_Eust_. Sir.

_Bri_. Your ear in private.