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.

Monsieur Thomas, A Comedy.

Actus Primus,

Scena Prima.

Enter Alice and Valentine.

Alice.

HOw dearely welcome you are!

Val.

I know it, And my best sister, you as deer to my sight. And pray let this confirm it, how you have govern'd My poore state in my absence, how my servants, I dare and must beleeve, else I should wrong ye, The best and worthiest.

Alice

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

Val.

But good Alice Tell me how fares the gentle Cellide, The life of my affection, since my travell, My long, and lazie travell? is her love still Vpon the growing hand? do's it not stop And wither at my yeares? has she not view'd And entertain'd some yonger smooth behaviour

Some youth but in his blossome, as her selfe is? There lyes my feares.

Alice

They need not, for beleeve me So well you have manag'd her, and won her minde, Even from her houres of childehood, to this ripenesse, And in your absence, that by me inforc••d stil, So well distill'd your gentlenesse into her, Observ'd her, fed her fancy, liv'd still in her, And though Love be a boy, and ever youthfull, And young, and beauteous object•• ever aym'd at, Yet here yee have gone beyond love, better'd nature, Made him appeare in yeares, in gray yeares fiery, His bow at full bent ever: feare not brother, For though your body has been farre off from her, Yet every houre your heart, which is your goodnesse, I have forc'd into her, won a place prepar'd too, And willingly to give it ever harbour: Beleeve 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 childe living now ye lost at sea Among the Genoway Gallies, what a happinesse, What a maine blessing?

Val.

O no more good sister, Touch no more that string, 'tis too harsh and jarring. With that childe all my hopes went, and you know The root of all those hopes, the mother too Within few dayes.

Alice

'Tis too true, and too fatall, But peace be with their soules.

Val.

For her losse I hope, the beauteous Cellide.

Alice.

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

Val.

For the poore boyes losse, I have brought a noble friend, I found in travell A worthier minde, and a more temperate spirit If I have so much judgement to discerne 'em,

Man yet was never master of.

Alice

What is he?

Val.

A Gentleman, I doe assure my selfe, And of a worthy breeding, though he hide it: I found him at Valentia, poore and needy, Onely his minde the master of a treasure. I sought his friendship, wonne 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 part••er, But onely

Alice

I observe ye, hold your right there, Love and high rule allowes no rivals, brother•• He shall have faire regard, and all observance.

Enter Hylas.

Hylas

Ye are welcome noble Sir.

Val.

What, Monsieur Hylas•• I'me glad to see your merry body well yet.

Hyl.

Yf'aith y'are welcome home; what news beyond ••eas?

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

Ye have it sir.

Hylas

A shrewd smart touch, which do's prognosticate A body k••ene and active, somewhat old, But that's all one: age brings experience And knowledge to dispatch. I must be better And neerer in my service, with your leave sir, To this faire L••dy.

Val.

What, the old squire of dame•• still••

Hyl.

Still the admire•• of their goodnesse with all my heart now

I love a woman of her yeares, a pacer That lay the bridle in her neck will travell Forty, and some what fulsome is a fine dish, These yong colts; are too sketish.

Enter Mary.

Al.

My cosin Mary In all her joy Si•• to congratulate Your faire returne.

Val.

My loving, and kind cosin, A thousand welcomes.

Mary.

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

Val.

I thanke ••e: But wher's my blessed Cellide? her slacknesse In visitation.

Mary

Thinke not so deere Vncle, I left her on her knees, thanking the gods With teares and prayers.

Val.

Ye have given me too much comfort.

Mary

She will not be long from ye.

Hyl.

Your faire cosin?

Val.

It is so, and a bait you cannot balke sir, If your old rule raigne in you, ye may know her. A happy stocke ye have, right worthy Lady, The poorest of your servants, vowes his duty And obliged faith.

Mary

O 'tis a kisse you would sir, Take it, and tye your tongue up.

Hyl.

I am an asse I doe perceive now: a blinde asse, a blockhead: For this is handsomnesse, this that that drawes 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 beares Her silver breasts? this is the woman, she, And onely she, that I will so much honour

As to thinke worthy of my love, all older Idol•• I heartily abhorre, and give to gunpowder, And all complexions besides he••s, to Gypsies.

Enter Francis at one door, and Cellide 〈◊〉〈◊〉 another.

Val.

O my deere life, my better heart, all danger••, Distresses in my travell, all misfortune••, Had they been endlesse like the houses upon me, In this kisse, had been buried in oblivion•• How happy have ye made me, truely happy?

Cel.

My joy has so much overm••ste••ed me, That in my teares for your returne.

Val.

O deerest: My noble friend too: what a blessednesse Have I about me now? how full my wish•••• Are come agen, a thousand hearty welcome•• I once more lay upon ye: all I have, The faire and liberall use of all my servant•• To be at your command, and all the use•• Of al 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 jewell I doe confesse would make a thiefe, 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 cosin and my sister.

Alice

Ye are most welcome:

Mary

If any thing in our poore powers fair•• sir To render ye content, and liberall welcome May but appeare, command it.

Alice

Ye shall find u•• Happy in our performance.

Fra.

The poore serv••nt Of both your goodnesses presents his service.

Val.

Come no more complement: custome has made it Dull, old, and tedious: ye are once more welcome, As your own•• thought•• can make ye, and the same ev••r. And so wee'l in to ratifie i••.

Hyl.

Harke ye Valentine, Is wild oates yet come over?

Val.

Yes: with me Sir.

Mar.

How do'•• he b••••re himself?

Val.

A great deale better: Why doe you blush? the Gentleman will doe well.

Mar.

I should be glad on't Sir.

Val.

How do's his Father?

Hyl.

As mad a worme 〈◊〉〈◊〉 ere he w••••.

Val.

I lookt for't: Shall we enjoy your companie?

Hyl.

Ile wayt 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 faire one: A dainty wench, a right one: a devill take it, What doe I ayle; to have fi••teene now in liking Enough a man would thinke to stay my stomack, But what's fifteene, or fifteene score to my thoughts? And wherefore are mine eyes made, and have lights, But to encrease my object••? this last wenc•• Stick•• plagny close unto me: a hundred po••••d I were as close to her: if I lov'd now As many foolish men doe•• I should run mad.

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

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.