University of Virginia Library

Actus Primus.

Scena Prima.

Enter Alice, and Valentine.
Alice.
How dearly welcome you are!

Val.
I know it,
And my best Sister, you are as dear to my sight,
And pray let this confirm it: how you have govern'd
My poor state in my absence, how my servants,
I dare, and must believe, else I should wrong ye,
The best and worthiest.

Alice.
As my womans wit, Sir,
Which is but weak and crazie.

Val.
But good Alice,
Tell me how fares the gentle Cellide,
The life of my affection, since my travel,
My long and lazie Travel? is her love still
Upon the growing hand? does it not stop
And wither at my years? has she not view'd
And entertain'd some younger smooth behaviour,
Some Youth but in his blossom, as her self is?
There lies my fears.

Alice.
They need not, for believe me
So well you have manag'd her, and won her mind,
Even from her hours of childhood, to this ripeness,
And in your absence, that by me enforc'd still,
So well distill'd your gentleness into her,
Observ'd her, fed her fancy, liv'd still in her,
And though Love be a Boy, and ever youthful,
And young and beauteous objects ever aim'd at,
Yet here ye have gone beyond love, better'd nature,
Made him appear in years, in grey years fiery,
His Bow at full bent ever; fear not Brother,
For though your body has been far off from her,
Yet every hour your heart, which is your goodness,
I have forc'd into her, won a place prepar'd too,
And willingly to give it ever harbour;
Believe she is so much yours, and won by miracle,
(Which is by age) so deep a stamp set on her
By your observances, she cannot alter.
Were the Child living now ye lost at Sea
Among the Genoua Gallies, what a happiness!
What a main Blessing!

Val.
O no more, good Sister,
Touch no more that string, 'tis too harsh and jarring.
With that Child all my hopes went, and you know
The root of all those hopes, the Mother too
Within few days.

Alice.
'Tis too true, and too fatal,
But peace be with their souls.

Val.
For her loss
I hope the beauteous Cellide.

Alice.
You may, Sir,
For all she is, is yours.

Val.
For the poor Boys loss,
I have brought a noble friend, I found in Travel,
A worthier mind, and a more temperate spirit,
If I have so much judgment to discern 'em,
Man yet was never master of.

Alice.
What is he?

Val.
A Gentleman, I do assure my self,
And of a worthy breeding, though he hide it;
I found him at Valentia, poor and needy,
Only his mind the master of a Treasure.
I sought his friendship, won him by much violence,
His honesty and modesty still fearing
To thrust a charge upon me; how I love him,
He shall now know, where want and he hereafter
Shall be no more Companions; use him nobly,
It is my will, good Sister, all I have
I make him free companion in, and partner,
But only—

Alice.
I observe ye, hold your Right there,
Love and high Rule allows no Rivals, Brother,
He shall have fair regard, and all observance.

Enter Hylas.
Hylas.
You are welcome, noble Sir.

Val.
What, Monsieur Hylas!
I'm glad to see your merry body well yet.

Hyl.
'Faith y'are welcome home, what news beyond seas?

Val.
None, but new men expected, such as you are,
To breed new admirations; 'Tis my Sister,
'Pray ye know her, Sir.

Hylas.
With all my heart; your leave Lady?

Alice.
You have it, Sir.

Hylas.
A shrewd smart touch, which does prognosticate
A Body keen and active, somewhat old,
But that's all one; age brings experience
And knowledge to dispatch: I must be better,
And nearer in my service, with your leave, Sir,
To this fair Lady.

Val.
What, the old 'squire of Dames still!

Hyl.
Still the admirer of their goodness; with all my heart now,
I love a woman of her years, a pacer
That lays the bridle in her Neck, will travel
Forty, and somewhat fulsome is a fine dish.
These young Colts are too skittish.

Enter Mary.
Alice.
My Cousin Mary
In all her joy, Sir, to congratulate
Your fair return.

Val.
My loving and kind Cousin,
A thousand welcomes.

Mary.
A thousand thanks to heaven, Sir,
For your safe voyage, and return.

Val.
I thank ye;
But where's my Blessed Cellide? her slackness
In visitation.

Mary.
Think not so, dear Uncle,
I left her on her knees, thanking the gods
With tears and prayers.

Val.
Ye have given me too much comfort.

Mary.
She will not be long from ye.

Hyl.
Your fair Cousin?

Val.
It is so, and abait you cannot balk Sir,
If your old rule reign in you, ye may know her
A happy stock ye have, right worthy Lady,
The poorest of your servants vows his duty
And obliged faith.

Mary.
O 'tis a kiss you would, Sir,
Take it, and tye your tongue up.

Hylas.
I am an Ass
I do perceive now, a blind Ass, a Blockhead;
For this is handsomness, this that that draws us
Body and Bones: Oh what a mounted forehead,
What eyes and lips, what every thing about her!
How like a Swan she swims her pace, and bears
Her silver Breasts! this is the Woman, she,
And only she, that I will so much honour
As to think worthy of my love, all older Idols
I heartily abhor, and give to Gunpowder,
And all Complexions besides hers, to Gypsies.

Enter Francis at one door, and Cellide at another.
Val.
O my dear life, my better heart, all dangers,
Distresses in my travel, all misfortunes,
Had they been endless like the hours upon me,
In this kiss had been buried in oblivion;
How happy have ye made me, truly happy?

Cel.
My joy has so much over mastered me,
That in my tears for your return—

Val.
O dearest;
My noble friend too! what a Blessedness
Have I about me now! how full my wishes
Are come again, a thousand hearty welcomes
I once more lay upon ye; all I have,
The fair and liberal use of all my servants
To be at your command, and all the uses
Of all within my power.

Fran.
Ye are too munificent,
Nor am I able to conceive those thanks, Sir.

Val.
Ye wrong my tender love now, even my service,
Nothing accepted, nothing stuck between us
And our intire affections but this woman,
This I beseech ye friend.

Fran.
It is a jewel,
I do confess, would make a Thief, but never
Of him that's so much yours, and bound your servant,
That were a base ingratitude.

Val.
Ye are noble,
'Pray be acquainted with her, keep your way, Sir,
My Cousin and my Sister.

Alice.
Ye are most welcome.

Mary.
If any thing in our poor powers, fair Sir,
To render ye content, and liberal welcome
May but appear, command it.

Alice.
Ye shall find us
Happy in our performance.

Fran.
The poor Servant
Of both your goodnesses presents his service.

Val.
Come, no more Complement; Custom has made it
Dull, old, and tedious; ye are once more welcome
As your own thoughts can make ye, and the same ever.
And so we'll in to ratifie it.

Hyl.
Hark ye, Valentine:
Is wild Oats yet come over?

Val.
Yes, with me, Sir.

Mary.
How does he bear himself?

Val.
A great deal better;
Why do you blush? the Gentleman will do well.

Mary.
I should be glad on't, Sir

Val.
How does his father?

Hyl.
As mad a worm as e'er he was.

Val.
I lookt for't:
Shall we enjoy your Company?

Hyl.
I'll wait on ye:
Only a thought or two.

Val.
We bar all prayers.

[Exeunt all but Hylas.
Hyl.
This last Wench! I, this last wench was a fair one,
A dainty Wench, a right one; a Devil take it,
What do I ail? to have fifteen now in liking,
Enough a Man would think to stay my stomach?
But what's fifteen, or fifteen score to my thoughts?
And wherefore are mine Eyes made, and have lights,
But to encrease my Objects? This last Wench
Sticks plaguey close to me, a hundred pound
I were as close to her; If I lov'd now,
As many foolish men do, I should run mad.

SCENE II.

Enter old Sebastian, and Launcelot.
Seb.
Sirrah, no more of your French shrugs I advise you.
If you be lowzie shift your self.

Laun.
May it please your Worship.

Seb.
Only to see my Son, my Son, good Launcelot;
Your Master and my Son; Body O me Sir,
No money, no more money, Monsieur Launcelot,
Not a Denier, sweet Signior; bring the Person,
The person of my Boy, my Boy Tom, Monsieur Thomas,
Or get you gone again, du gata whee, Sir;
Bassa micu, good Launcelot, valetote.
My Boy or nothing.

Laun.
Then to answer punctually.

Seb.
I say to th'purpose.

Laun.
Then I say to th'purpose,
Because your Worships vulgar Understanding
May meet me at the nearest; your Son, my Master,
Or Monsieur Thomas, (for so his Travel stiles him)
Through many foreign plots that Vertue meets with,
And dangers (I beseech ye give attention)
Is at the last arriv'd
To ask your (as the French man calls it sweetly)
Benediction de jour en jour.

Seb.
Sirrah, do not conjure me with your French furies.

Laun.
Che ditt' a vou, Monsieur.

Seb.
Che dogavou, Rascal;
Leave me your rotten language, and tell me plainly,
And quickly, Sirrah, lest I crack your French Crown,
What your good Master means; I have maintain'd
You and your Monsieur, as I take it, Launcelot,
These two years at your ditty vous, your jours.
Jour me no more, for not another penny
Shall pass my purse.

Laun.
Your Worship is erroneous,
For as I told you, your Son Tom, or Thomas,
My master and your Son is now arriv'd
To ask you, as our Language bears it nearest,
Your quotidian Blessing, and here he is in Person.

Enter Thomas.
Seb.
What, Tom! Boy, welcome with all my heart, Boy
Welcome, 'faith thou hast gladded me at soul, Boy,
Infinite glad I am, I have pray'd too, Thomas,
For you wild Thomas, Tom, I thank thee heartily
For coming home.

Thom.
Sir, I do find your Prayers
Have much prevail'd above my sins.

Seb.
How's this?

Thom.
Else certain I had perish'd with my rudeness,
Ere I had won my self to that discretion,
I hope you shall hereafter find.

Seb.
Humh, humh,
Discretion? is it come to that? the Boy's spoil'd.

Thom.
Sirrah, you Rogue, look for't, for I will make thee
Ten times more miserable than thou thought'st thy self
Before thou travell'dst; thou hast told my Father,
I know it, and I find it, all my Rogueries
By meer way of prevention to undo me.

Laun.
Sir, as I speak eight languages, I only
Told him you came to ask his benediction,
De jour en jour.

Thom.
But that I must be civil,
I would beat thee like a Dog. Sir, however
The Time I have mispent may make you doubtful,
Nay harden your belief 'gainst my Conversion.

Seb.
A pox o' travel, I say.

Thom.
Yet dear Father
Your own experience in my after courses.

Enter Dorothea.
Seb.
Prithee no more, 'tis scurvy; there's thy Sister.
Undone without Redemption; he eats with picks,
Utterly spoil'd, his spirit baffled in him:
How have I sin'd that this affliction
Should light so heavy on me? I have no more Sons;
And this no more mine own, no spark of Nature
Allows him mine now, he's grown tame; my grand curse.
Hang o'r his head that thus transform'd thee: travel?
I'll send my horse to travel next; we Monsieur.
Now will my most canonical dear Neighbours
Say I have found my Son, and rejoyce with me,
Because he has mew'd his mad tricks off: I know not,
But I am sure this Monsieur, this fine Gentleman
Will never be in my Books like mad Thomas,
I must go seek an Heir, for my inheritance
Must not turn Secretary; my name and quality
Has kept my Land three hundred years in madness,
And it slip now, may it sink.

[Exit.
Thom.
Excellent Sister,
I am glad to see thee well; but where's thy father?

Dor.
Gone discontent, it seems.

Thom.
He did ill in it
As he does all; for I was utterring
A handsome Speech or two, I have been studying
E'r since I came from Paris: how glad to see thee!

Dor.
I am gladder to see you, with more love too
I dare maintain it, than my Father's sorry
To see (as he supposes) your Conversion;
And I am sure he is vext, nay more, I know it,
He has pray'd against it mainly; but it appears, Sir,
You had rather blind him with that poor opinion
Than in your self correct it: dearest Brother,
Since there is in our uniform resemblance,
No more to make us two but our bare Sexes;
And since one happy Birth produc'd us hither,
Let one more happy mind.

Thom.
It shall be, Sister,
For I can do it when I list; and yet, Wench,
Be mad too when I please; I have the trick on't:
Beware a Traveller.

Dor.
Leave that trick too.

Thom.
Not for the world: but where's my Mistress,
And prithee say how does she? I melt to see her,
And presently: I must away.

Dor.
Then do so,
For o' my faith, she will not see you Brother.

Thom.
Not see me? I'll—

Dor.
Now you play your true self;
How would my father love this! I'll assure you
She will not see you; she has heard (and loudly)
The gambols that you plaid since your departure,
In every Town ye came, your several mischiefs,
Your rowses and your wenches; all your quarrels,
And the no causes of 'em; these I take it
Although she love ye well, to modest ears,
To one that waited for your reformation,
To which end travel was propounded by her Uncle,
Must needs, and reason for it, be examined,
And by her modesty, and fear'd too light too,
To fyle with her affections; ye have lost her
For any thing I see, exil'd your self.

Thom.
No more of that, sweet Doll, I will be civil.

Dor.
But how long?

Thom.
Would'st thou have me lose my Birth-right?
For yond old thing will disinherit me
If I grow too demure; good sweet Doll, prithee,
Prithee, dear Sister, let me see her.

Dor.
No.

Thom.
Nay, I beseech thee, by this light.

Dor.
I, swagger.

Thom.
Kiss me, and be my friend, we two were twins,
And shall we now grow strangers?

Dor.
'Tis not my fault.

Thom.
Well, there be other women, and remember
You, you were the cause of this; there be more lands too,
And better People in 'em, fare ye well,
And other loves; what shall become of me
And of my vanities, because they grieve ye?

Dor.
Come hither, come, do you see that Cloud that flies there?
So light are you, and blown with every fancy:
Will ye but make me hope ye may be civil?
I know your Nature's sweet enough, and tender,
Not grated on, nor curb'd: do you love your Mistress?

Thom.
He lies that says I do not.

Dor.
Would ye see her?

Thom.
If you please, for it must be so.

Dor.
And appear to her
A thing to be belov'd?

Thom.
Yes.

Dor.
Change then
A little of your wildness into wisdom,
And put on a more smoothness;
I'll do the best I can to help ye, yet
I do protest she swore, and swore it deeply,
She would never see you more; where's your mans heart now?
What, do you faint at this?

Thom.
She is a woman;
But him she entertains next for a servant,
I shall be bold to quarter.

Dor.
No thought of sighting;
Go in, and there we'll talk more, be but rul'd,
And what lies in my power, ye shall be sure of.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

Enter Alice, and Mary.
Alice.
He cannot be so wild still.

Mary.
'Tis most certain,
I have now heard all, and all the truth.

Alice.
Grant all that;
Is he the first that has been giv'n a lost man,
And yet come fairly home? he is young and tender,
And sit for that impression your affections
Shall stamp upon him, age brings on discretion,
A year hence, these mad toys that now possess him
Will shew like Bugbears to him, shapes to fright him;
Marriage dissolves all these like mists.

Mary.
They are grounded
Hereditary in him, from his father,
And to his grave they will haunt him.

Alice.
'Tis your fear
Which is a wise part in you; yet your love
However you may seem to lessen it
With these dislikes, and choak it with these errors,
Do what you can, will break out to excuse him,
Ye have him in your heart, and planted, Cousin,
From whence the power of reason, nor discretion
Can ever root him.

Mary.
Planted in my heart, Aunt?
Believe it no, I never was so liberal;
What though he shew a so so comely fellow
Which we call pretty? or say it may be handsom?
What though his promises may stumble at
The power of goodness in him, sometimes use too?

Al.
How willingly thy heart betrays thee, Cousin?
Cozen thy self no more; thou hast no more power
To leave off loving him than he that's thirsty
Has to abstain from drink standing before him;
His mind is not so monstrous for his shape,
If I have Eyes, I have not seen his better.
A handsome brown Complexion.

Mary.
Reasonable,
Inclining to a tawney.

Alice.
Had I said so
You would have wish'd my tongue out; then his making.

Mar.
Which may be mended; I have seen legs straighter,
And cleaner made.

Alice.
A body too.

Mary.
Far neater,
And better set together.

Alice.
God forgive thee.
For against thy Conscience thou lyest stubbornly.

Mary.
I grant 'tis neat enough.

Alice.
'Tis excellent,
And where the outward parts are fair and lovely,
(Which are but moulds o'th' mind) what must the soul be?
Put case youth has his swinge, and fiery Nature
Flames to mad uses many times.

Mary.
All this
You only use to make me say I love him;
I do confess I do, but that my fondness
Should fling it self upon his desperate follies.

Alice.
I do not counsel that, see him reclaim'd first,
Which will not prove a miracle, yet Mary,
I am afraid 'twill vex thee horribly
To stay so long.

Mary.
No, no Aunt, no, believe me.

Alice.
What was your dream to night? for I observ'd ye
Hugging of me, with good dear sweet Tom.

Mary.
Fye, Aunt,
Upon my Conscience.

Alice.
On my word 'tis true, Wench;
And then ye kiss'd me, Mary, more than once too,
And sigh'd, and O sweet Tom again; nay, do not blush,
Ye have it at the heart, Wench.

Mary.
I'll be hang'd first,
But you must have your way.

Enter Dorothea.
Alice.
And so will you too,
Or break down hedges for it. Dorothea,
The welcom'st woman living; how does thy Brother?
I hear he's turn'd a wondrous civil Gentleman
Since his short travel.

Dor.
'Pray Heaven he make it good, Alice.

Mary.
How do ye friend? I have a quarrel to ye,
Ye stole away and left my company.

Dor.
O pardon me, dear friend, it was to welcome
A Brother that I have some Cause to love well.

Mary.
Prithee how is he? thou speak'st truth.

Dor.
Not perfect,
I hope he will be.

Mary.
Never: h'as forgot me,
I hear Wench, and his hot love too.

Alice.
Thou would'st howl then.

Mary.
And I am glad it should be so; his travels
Have yielded him variety of Mistresses,
Fairer in his eye far.

Alice.
O cogging Rascal!

Mary.
I was a fool, but better thoughts I thank heaven

Dor.
'Pray do not think so, for he loves you dearly,
Upon my troth most firmly, would fain see you.

Mary.
See me friend! do you think it fit?

Dor.
It may be,
Without the loss of credit too; he's not
Such a prodigious thing, so monstrous,
To fling from all society.

Mary.
He's so much contrary
To my desires, such an antipathy
That I must sooner see my grave.

Dor.
Dear friend,
He was not so before he went.

Mary.
I grant it,
For then I daily hop'd his fair Conversion.

Alice.
Come, do not mask your self, but see him freely,
Ye have a mind.

Mary.
That mind I'll master then.

Dor.
And is your hate so mortal?

Mary.
Not to his person,
But to his qualities, his mad-cap follies,
Which still like Hydras heads grow thicker on him.
I have a credit, friend, and Maids of my sort,
Love where their modesties may live untainted.

Dor.
I give up that hope then; 'pray for your friends sake,
If I have any interest within ye,
Do but this courtesie, accept this Letter.

Mary.
From him?

Dor.
The same; 'tis but a minutes reading,
And as we look on shapes of painted Devils,
Which for the present may disturb our fancy,
But with the next new object lose 'em, so
If this be soul, ye may forget it, 'pray.

Mary.
Have ye seen it, friend?

Dor.
I will not lie; I have not,
But I presume, so much he honours you,
The worst part of himself was cast away
When to his best part he writ this.

Mary.
For your sake,
Not that I any way shall like his scribling.

Alice.
A shrewd dissembling Quean.

Dor.
I thank ye, dear friend,
I know she loves him.

Alice.
Yes, and will not lose him,
Unless he leap into the Moon, believe that,
And then she'l scramble too; young wenches loves
Are like the course of quartans, they may shift
And seem to cease sometimes, and yet we see
The least distemper pulls 'em back again,
And seats 'em in their old course; fear her not,
Unless he be a Devil.

Mary.
Now Heaven bless me.

Dor.
What has he writ?

Mary.
Out, out upon him.

Dor.
Ha, what has the mad man done?

Mary.
Worse, worse, and worse still.

Alice.
Some Northern Toy, a little broad.

Mary.
Still fouler?
Hey, hey Boys, goodness keep me; Oh.

Dor.
What ail ye?

Mary.
Here, take your Spell again, it burns my fingers.
Was ever Lover writ so sweet a Letter?
So elegant a style? pray look upon't;
The rarest inventory of rank Oaths
That ever Cut purse cast.

Alice.
What a mad Boy is this?

Mary.
Only i'th' bottom
A little Julip gently sprinkled over
To cool his mouth, lest it break out in blisters,
Indeed law. Yours for ever.

Dor.
I am sorry.

Mar.
You shall be welcome to me, come when you please,
And ever may command me vertuously,
But for your Brother, you must pardon me,
Till I am of his nature, no access friend,
No word of visitation, as ye love me,
And so for now I'le leave ye.

[Exit.
Alice.
What a letter
Has this thing written, how it roars like thunder?
With what a state he enters into stile?
Dear Mistress.

Dor.
Out upon him bedlam.

Alice.
Well, there be waies to reach her yet: such likeness
As you two carry me thinks.

Dor.
I am mad too,
And yet can apprehend ye: fare ye well,
The fool shall now fish for himself.

Alice.
Be sure then
His tewgh be tith and strong: and next no swearing,
He'l catch no fish else, Farewel Dol.

Dor.
Farewel Alice.

[Exeunt.