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 Tertia.

Enter Alic•• and Mary.

Al.

HEe cannot be so wilde still.

Ma.

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

Al.

Grant all that: Is he the first, that h'as bin giv'n a lost man, And yet come fairely home? he is yong, and tender And fit for that impression; your affections Shall stamp upon him, age brings on discretion, A yeere hence, these mad toyes that now possesse him Will shew like bugbeares to him, shapes to ••right him; Marriage dissolves all these like mists.

Mar.

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

Al.

'Tis your feare Which is a wise part in you; yet your love However you may seeme to lessen it with these dislikes, and choake it with these errors, Do what you can will break out to excuse him, Ye have him in your hart, and planted, Cosin, From whence the power of reason, nor discretion Can ever roote him.

Mar.

Planted in my heart Aunt? Beleeve it no, I never was so liberall: What though he shew a so so comely fellow Which we call pretty? or say it may be hansom? What though his promises may stumble at The power of goodnesse in him, sometimes use too?

Al.

How willingly thy heart betrayes thee cosin? Cozen thy selfe no more: thou has•• no more power To leave off loving him, then he that's thirsty

Ha•• to abst••ine from drinke standing before him. His mind is not so monstrous for his shape If I have eye••; I have not seene hi•• better. A hansom browne complexion

Mar.

Reasonable Inclining to a tawney.

Al.

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

Mar.

Which may be mended: I have s••ene legg•• straiter. And cleaner made.

Al.

A body too,

Mar.

Far neater, And better set together.

Alice

God forgive thee, For against thy conscience thou lyest stubbornely.

Mar.

I grant 'tis neat enough.

Alice

'Tis excellent, And where the outward parts are faire and lovely, (Which are but molds o'th minde) what must the soule be? Put case youth has his swinge, and fyery nature Flames to mad uses many times.

Mar.

All this You onely use, to make me say I love him: I doe confesse I doe, but that my fondnesse Should fling it selfe upon his desperate follies.

Alice

I doe not counsell that, see him reclaim'd first, Which will not prove a miracle, yet Mary I am afraid 'twill vexe thee horribly To stay so long.

Mar.

No, no Aunt, no beleeve me.

Alice

What was your dreame to night? for I observ'd ye Hugging of me; with good, deere, sweet Tom.

Mar.

Fye Aunt, Vpon my conscience.

Alice

On my word 'tis true wench: And then ye kis••'d me Mary, more then once too, And sigh'd, and O sw••et Tom againe: nay, doe not blush, Ye have it at the heart wench.

Mar.

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

Enter Dorothea.

Alice

And so will you too, Or breake down hedges for it: Dorothea, The welcom'st woman living: how do's thy brother? I heare he's turn'd a wondrous civill gentleman Since his short travell.

Dor.

Pray heaven he make it good Alice.

Mar.

How doe ye friend, I have a quarrell to ye, Ye stole away, and left my company.

Dor.

O pardon me, deere friend, it was to welcome A brother, that I have some cause to love well.

Mar.

Prethee how is he? thou speakst truth.

Dor.

Not perfect: I hope he will be.

Mar.

Never: ha's forgot me, I heare wench, and his hot love too:

Alice

Thou wouldst ••owle then.

Mar.

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

Alice

O cogging rascall.

Mar.

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

Dor.

Pray do not think so, for he loves you deerely, Vpon my troth most ••••••mely: would faine see you.

Mar.

S••e m•• friend•• doe you thinke it fit?

Dor.

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

Mar.

His so much contrary To my desires, such an antipathy That I must sooner see my grave.

Dor.

Deere friend, He was not so before he went.

Mar.

I grant it, For then I daily hop'd his fa••re convers••on.

Alice

Com••, do not maske your selfe, but see him freely,

Ye have a minde.

Mar.

That minde I'le master then.

Dor.

And is your hate so mortall?

Mar.

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, Doe but this courtesie, accept this Letter.

Mar.

From him?

Dor.

The same: 'tis but a minutes reading, And as we looke on shapes of painted divels, Which for the present may disturb our fancy, But with the next new object loose 'em so If this be foule, ye may forget it, 'pray:

Mar.

Have ye seene it friend?

Dor.

I will not lye: I have not, But I presume, so much he honours you, The worst part of himselfe was cast away When to his best part he writ this.

Mar.

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

Alice

A shrewd dissembling queane.

Dor.

I thanke ye deere friend, I know she loves him.

Alice

Yes, and will not loose him, Vnlesse he leap into the Moone, beleeve that, And then shee'l scramble too: yong wenches loves Are like the course of quarterns, they may shift And seeme to cease sometimes, and yet we see The least distemper puls 'em backe againe, And seats 'em in their old course: feare her not, Vnlesse he be a devill.

Mar.

Now heaven blesse me.

Dor.

What has he writ?

Mar.

Out, out upon him.

Dor.

Ha, what has the mad man done?

Mar.

Worse, worse, and wor••e still,

Alice

Some northerne toy, a little broad.

Mar.

Still fowler? Hay, hay boyes: goodnesse keep me: oh:

Dor.

What ayle ye?

Mar.

Here, take your spell againe, it burnes my fingers, Was ever Lover writ so sweet a Letter, So elega••t a stile? pray looke upon't: The rarest inventory of ranke oathes That ever cut-purse cast.

Alice

What a mad boy is this?

Mar.

Onely i'th bottome A little julip gently sprinckled over To coole his mouth, lest it breake out in blister••, 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 m••, Till I am of his nature, no accesse friend, No word of visitation, as ye love me, And so for now Ile leave ye.

Exit.

Alice

What a letter Has this thing written, how it roares like thunder? With what a s••ate he enters into stile. Deere Mistresse.

Dor.

Out upon him bedlam.

Alice

Well, there be waies to reach her yet: such likenesse As you two carry me thinkes.

Dor.

I am mad too, And yet can apprehend ye: fare ye w••ll, The foole shall now fish for himselfe.

Alice

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

Dor.

Farewell Alice.

Exeunt.