The Funeral black, (your rich heir wears with joy,
When he pretends to weep for his dead Father)
Your gathering Sires, so long heap muck together,
That their kind Sons, to rid them of their care,
Wish them in Heaven; or if they take a taste
Of Purgatory by the way, it matters not,
Provided they remove hence; what is befaln
To his Father, in the other world, I ask not;
I am sure his prayer is heard: would I could use one
For mine, in the same method.

_Ars_.

Fie upon thee.
This is prophane.

_Mil_.

Good Doctor, do not school me
For a fault you are not free from: On my life
Were all Heirs in _Corduba_, put to their Oaths,
They would confess with me, 'tis a sound Tenet:
I am sure _Leandro_ do's.

_Ars_.

He is th'owner
Of a fair Estate.

_Mil_.