Monsieur Thomas A comedy. Acted at the Private House in Blacke Fryers. The author, Iohn Fletcher, Gent.

Scaena Secunda.

Enter old Sebastian, and Launcelot.

Seb.

SIrha, no more of your French shrugs J advise you, If you be lowzie, shift your selfe.

Lan.

May it please your worship:

Seb

Onely to see my sonne, my sonne good Launcelot Your Master, and my sonne: body O me sir, No money, no more money Monsieur Launcelot, Not a deneere, sweet Signior: bring the person, The person of my boy, my boy Tom: Monsieur Thomas, Or get you gone agen, du gata whee sir, Bassa mi cu, good Launcelot, valetote. My boy, or nothing.

Lan.

Then to answer punctually.

Seb.

I say to 'th purpose.

Lan.

Then J say to'th purpose, Because your Worships vulgar understanding May meet me at the neerest: 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) Is at the last ariv'd To aske your (as the French man cals it sweetly) Benediction, ae jour en jour.

Seb.

Sirha, do not conjure me with your French furies.

Lan.

Che ditt'a vou, Monsieur.

Seb.

Che doga vou, Rascall: Leave me your rotten language, and tell me plainely And quickly sirha, left I crack your French crowne, What your good Master meanes: I have maintain'd You and your Monsieur, as I take it Launcelot These two yeeres at your ditty vous, your jours:

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

Lan.

Your Worship is 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 'faith, thou hast gladded me at soule boy, Infinite glad I am, I have praied too, Thomas For you wilde Thomas, Tom, I thank thee 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 rudenesse, Ere J had won my selfe to that discretion I hope you shall hereafter finde.

Seb.

Humh, humh, Discretion? is it come to that? the boy's spoild.

Thom.

Sirah, you rogue, look for'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 J speake eight languages, I onely Told him you came to aske his benediction, De jour enjour.

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, harden your beliefe 'gainst my conversion,

Seb.

A pox o' travell, I say.

Thom.

Yet deere father Your owne experience in my after courses.

Enter Dorothea.

Seb.

Prethee no more; t'is scurvy; ther's thy sister Vndon without redemption: he eates with picks Vtterly spoyld, his spirit baffell'd in him. How have I find 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, he's growne tame: 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 deere 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 never be in my books like mad Thomas, I must goe seeke an heire, for my inheritance Must not turne secretary: my name and quality Has kept my land three hundred yeers in madnesse, And it slip now, may it sinke.

Exit.

Tho.

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

Dor.

Gone discontent, it seemes.

Thom.

He did ill in it As he dos all: for I was uttering A handsome speech or two, I have been studying 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 appeares 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 produced 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 that trick too,

Thom.

Not for the world: but wher's my Mistresse And prethee say how do's she? I melt to see her, And presently: I must a way.

Dor.

Then doe so. For o' my fath she will not see your brother.

Thom.

Not see me? I'le.

Dor.

Now you 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 quarrells, And the no causes of 'em: these I take it Although she love ye well, to modest eares, To one that waited for your reformation, To which end travell was propounded by 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 lost her For any thing I see, exil'd your selfe.

Thom.

No more of that sweet Doll, I will 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.

Kisse 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 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 Mistresse?

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 smoothnesse: 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 mans heart now? What doe you faint at this?

Thom.

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

Dor.

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