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

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.

Ʋal.

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 inforced 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 objects 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?

Ʋal.

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.

Ʋal.

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 J 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 J 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 seas?

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 keene 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 Lady.

Val.

What, the old squire of dames still?

Hyl.

Still the admirer 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 somewhat fulsome is a fine dish, These yong colts; are too sketish.

Enter Mary.

Al.

My cosin Mary In all her joy Sir 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 belong 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 Idols I heartily abhorre, and give to gunpowder, And all complexions besides hers, to Gypsies.

Enter Francis at one door, and Cellide at another.

Val.

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

Cel.

My joy has so much overmastered 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 wishes Are come agen, a thousand hearty welcomes I once more lay upon ye: all I have, The faire and liberall use of all my servants To be at your command, and all the uses 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.

Ʋal.

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 faire sir To render ye content, and liberall welcome May but appeare, command it.

Alice

Ye shall find us Happy in our performance.

Fra.

The poore servant Of both your goodnesses presents his service.

Ʋal.

Come no more complement: custome has made it Dull, old, and tedious: ye are once more welcome, As your owne thoughts can make ye, and the same ever. And so wee'l in to ratifie it.

Hyl.

Harke ye Valentine, Is wild oates yet come over?

Val.

Yes: with me Sir.

Mar.

How do's he beare 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 as ere he was.

Ʋal.

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

Hyl.

Ile wayt on ye: Only a thought, or two.

Ʋal.

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 fifteene 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 objects? this last wench Sticks plaguy close unto me: a hundred pound 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 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.

Scaena Tertia.

Enter Alice 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 fright 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 hast no more power To leave off loving him, then he that's thirsty

Has to abstaine from drinke standing before him. His mind is not so monstrous for his shape If I have eyes; I have not seene his 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 seene leggs 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 kiss'd me Mary, more then once too, And sigh'd, and O sweet 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 howle 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 foole, but better thoughts I thank heaven.

Dor.

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

Mar.

See me 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 faire conversion.

Alice

Come, 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.

J 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 worse 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 elegant 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 blisters, Indeed law. Yours for ever.

Dor.

I am sorry.

Mar.

You shall be welcome to me, eome when you please, And ever may command me vertuously, But for your brother, you must pardon me, 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 state 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 well, 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.