 | Monsieur Thomas |  |
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.
387
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.
| Monsieur Thomas | |