Fathers own son a comedy formerly acted at the private house in Black Fryers, and now at the Theatre in Vere-Street by His Majesties servants / the author John Fletcher, Gent.

Scaena Secunda.

Enter old Sebastian, and L••••••celot.

Seb.

SIrha, no more of your Fr••nch shrugs I advise you, If you be lowzie, shift your selfe.

La••.

May it pleas•• your worship••

Seb.

Onely to see my sonne, my sonne good L••uncelot: Your Master, and my sonnes body O me si••, No money, no more money Monsieur Launcelot•• Not a dene••re, sweet Signior: b••ing the person, The person of my boy, my boy Tom: Monsieur Thomas, O•• get you gone ag••n, du gata wh•••• ••ir, Bassa mi cu, good Launcelot, valet••t••. My boy, or nothing.

Lan.

Then to answer punctually.

Seb.

I say to 'th purpose.

Lan.

Then I say to'th purpose, Because your Worships vulgar understanding May meet me at the ne••rest•• your sonne, my master, Or Monsieur Thomas, (for so his travell stiles him) Through many forraigne plots that vertue meets with, And dangers (I beseech ye give attention) I•• at the last ariv'd To aske your (as the French man cals it swee••ly) Benediction, as jo••r 〈◊〉〈◊〉 jo••r.

Seb.

Sirha, do not conjure me with your French ••uries.

Lan.

Che ditt'a v••n, Monsieur.

Seb.

Che d••g•• v••n, Rascall: Leave me your rott••n lang••••ge, and tell me plainely And quickly si••ha, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 I cr••ck your French crown••, What your good Master meanes: I have maintain'd You and your Monsieur, as I take it La••••celo•• These two yeeres ••t your ditty 〈◊〉〈◊〉, your 〈◊〉〈◊〉:

Iour me no more, for not another penny Shall passe my purse.

Lan.

Your Worship i•• erroneous, For as I told you, your Sonne Tom, or Thomas, My Master, and your sonne is now arriv'd To aske ye, as our language beares it neerest Your quotidian blessing, and here he is in person.

Enter Thomas.

Seb.

What Tom, boy, welcome with all my heart boy, Welcome ••••ith, thou hast gladded me at soule boy, Infinite glad I am, I have pra••ed too, Thomas For you wilde Thomas, Tom, I thank th••e hartily For comming home.

Thom.

Sir, I doe finde your prayers Have much much prevail'd above my sins.

Seb.

How's this?

Thom.

Else certaine I had perish'd with my rudeness••, Ere I had won my selfe to that discretion I hope you shall hereafter finde.

Seb.

Humh, humh, Di••cretion? is it come to that? the boy's spoild.

Thom.

Sirah, you rogu••, look ••or't, for I will make thee Ten times more miserable then thou thoughtst thy selfe Before thou travelledst: thou hast told my father I know it, and I finde it, all my rogueries By meere way of prevention to undoe me.

Lan.

Sir•• as I spe••ke eight language••, I onely Told him you came to aske his benediction, De jour ••njour.

Thom.

But that I must be civill. I would beat thee like a dog: sir, howsoever The time I have mispent may make you doubtfull, Nay, hard••n your beliefe 'gainst my co••ver••ion,

Seb.

A po•• o' travell, I say.

Thom.

Y••t deere f••ther•• Your owne ••••perience in my a••ter cour••e••.

Enter Dorothea.

Seb.

Prethee no more; t'is scurvy; ther'•• thy sister Vndon without redemption: he ••ates with pick•• Vtterly spoyld, his spirit ba••fell'd in him. How have I sind that this affliction Should light so heavie on me. I have no more sonnes; And this no more mine owne, no spark of nature Allows him mine now, h••'•• growne t••me: my grand curse Hang ore his head that thus transform'd thee: travell? Ile send my horse to travell next: we monsieur, Now will my most canonicall d••ere neighbours Say I have found my sonne, 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 n••ver be in my books like m••d Thomas, I must go•• s••••k•• an heire, for my inheritance Must not turne s••cretary: my name and q••ality Has kept my land three hundred yeers in madnesse, And it slip now, may it sinke.

Exit.

Th••.

Excellent sister, I am glad to see thee well: but wher's my father?

Dor.

Gone discontent, it seeme••.

Thom.

He did ill in it As he dos all: for I was uttering A handsome speech or two, I have been ••tudying Ere since I came from Paris: how glad to see thee?

Dor.

I am gladder to see you, with more love too I dare maintaine it, then my fathers sorry To see (as he supposes) your conversion: And I am sure he is vext, nay more I know it, He has prai'd against it mainely: but it appear•••• sir Ye had rather blinde him with that poore opinion•• Then in your selfe correct it, deerest brother, Since there is in our uniforme resemblance, No more to make us two, but our bare sexes: And since one happy birth pro••uced us hither,

Let one more happy minde.

Thom.

Ir shallbe sister, For I can doe it when I list: a••d yet wench Be mad too when I please: I have the trick on't. Beware a traveller.

Dor.

Leave tha•• trick too,

Thom.

Not for the world: bu•• whe••'s my Mistres••e And p••••thee say how do's she? I melt to see her, And pre••e••••ly: I must a way.

Dor••

••hen doe ••o. For o' my ••ath she will not see your brother••

Thom.

Not s••e me? I'le.

Dor.

Now y••u play your true self•• How would my father love this! I'le assure ye She will not see you: she has heard, (and lowdly) The gambolls that you plaid since your departure, In every Towne ye came, your severall mischeifes•• Your rowses, and your wenches: all your quarrel••s, And the no causes of 'em: these •• take it Although she love ye well, to modest eares, To one that waited for your reform••tion, To which end travell was propounded b•• her Vncle, 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 l••st her For any thing I see, exil'd your selfe.

Thom.

No more of that sweet Dol••, I wi••l be civill.

Dor.

But how long?

Thom.

Wouldst thou have me lose my birth-right•• For yond old thing will disinherit me If I grow too demure: good sweet Doll, prethee: Prethee deere sister, let me see her.

Dor.

No.

Thom.

Nay, I beseech thee: by this light.

Dor.

I: swagger.

Thom.

Kis••e me, and be my friend, we two were ••wins. And shall w•• now grow strangers?

Dor.

'Ti•• not my fault,

Thom.

Well, there be other women, and remember You, you were the cause of thi••: 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 hi••her, come, do you see that clowd that flyes there? So light are you, and blown with every fancy: Will ye but make me hope ye may be civill? I know your nature's sweet enough, and tender, Not grated on, nor curb'd: doe you love your Mi••tresse?

Thom.

He lyes, that sayes I doe not.

Dor.

Would ye see her?

Thom.

If you please: for it must be so.

Dor.

And appeare to her A thing to be belov'd?

Thom.

Yes.

Dor.

Change then A little of your wildenesse into wisedome, And put on a more smoothnes••e: I'le doe the best I can to helpe ye, yet I doe protest she swore, and swore it deeply, She would never see you more: where's your man•• heart now? What doe you faint at this?

Thom.

She is a woman: But he she entertaines next for a s••rvant, I shall be bold to quarter.

Dor.

No thought of fighting: Goe in, and ••here wee'l talke more: be but rul'd, And what lyes in my power, ye shall be sure of.

Exeunt