 | Monsieur Thomas |  |
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,
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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,
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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.
| Monsieur Thomas | |