amity? are you not sons of one father, scions of one tree, birds of one nest, and wilt thou become so unnatural as to rob them, whom thou shouldst relieve?  No, Saladyne, entreat them with favors, and entertain them with love, so shalt thou have thy conscience clear and thy renown excellent.  Tush, what words are these, base fool, far unfit (if thou be wise) for thy humor?  What though thy father at his death talked of many frivolous matters, as one that doated for age and raved in his sickness; shall his words be axioms, and his talk be so authentical, that thou wilt, to observe them, prejudice thyself?  No no, Saladyne, sick men’s wills that are parole[1] and have neither hand nor seal, are like the laws of a city written in dust, which are broken with the blast of every wind.  What, man, thy father is dead, and he can neither help thy fortunes, nor measure thy actions; therefore bury his words with his carcase, and be wise for thyself.  What, ’tis not so old as true,

     Non sapit, qui sibi non sapit.

[Footnote 1:  oral.]

Thy brother is young, keep him now in awe; make him not checkmate[1] with thyself, for

     Nimia familiaritas contemptum parit.

[Footnote 1:  equal.]

Let him know little, so shall he not be able to execute much:  suppress his wits with a base estate, and though he be a gentleman by nature, yet form him anew, and make him a peasant by nurture:  so shalt thou keep him as a slave, and reign thyself sole lord over all thy father’s possessions.  As for Fernandyne, thy middle brother, he is a scholar and hath no mind but on Aristotle:  let him read on Galen while thou riflest[1] with gold, and pore on his book till thou dost purchase lands:  wit is great wealth; if he have learning it is enough:  and so let all rest.”

[Footnote 1:  gamble, cf. modern “raffle.”]

In this humor was Saladyne, making his brother Rosader his foot-boy, for the space of two or three years, keeping him in such servile subjection, as if he had been the son of any country vassal.  The young gentleman bore all with patience, till on a day, walking in the garden by himself, he began to consider how he was the son of John of Bordeaux, a knight renowned for many victories, and a gentleman famosed for his virtues; how, contrary to the testament of his father, he was not only kept from his land and entreated as a servant, but smothered in such secret slavery, as he might not attain to any honorable actions.

“Ah,” quoth he to himself, nature working these effectual passions, “why should I, that am a gentleman born, pass my time in such unnatural drudgery? were it not better either in Paris to become a scholar, or in the court a courtier, or in the field a soldier, than to live a foot-boy to my own brother?  Nature hath lent me wit to conceive, but my brother denied me art to contemplate:  I have strength to perform any honorable exploit, but no liberty to accomplish my virtuous endeavors:  those good parts that God hath bestowed upon me, the envy of my brother doth smother in obscurity; the harder is my fortune, and the more his frowardness.”