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

Scena Quarta.

Enter Ʋalentine and Michael.

Mich.

THat he is desp••rate sick, I do beleeve well, And that without a sp••edy cure, it kils him, But that it lyes within the help•• of physicke, Now to restore his health, or art to cure him: Beleeve it you are cosened: cleane beside it. I would tell ye the true cause too, but 'twould vexe ye, Nay, run ye mad.

Val.

May all I have restore him? So deerely and so tenderly I love him, I doe not know the cause why, yea my life too.

Mich.

Now I perceive ye so well set, I'le tell you, Hei mihi quod nullis amor, est medicabilis herbis.

Val.

'Twas that I onely fear'd: good friend go from me, I finde my heart too full for further conference: You are assur'd of this?

Mich.

'Twill prove too certaine, But beare it nobly sir, youth hath his errors.

Val.

I shall do, and I thank ye: pray ye no words on't, I doe not use to talke sir.

Exit.

Ʋal.

Ye are welcome: Is there no constancy in earthly things: No happinesse in us, but what must alter, No life without the heavy load of fortune? What miseries we are, and to our selves, Even then when full content seemes to sit by us, What daily sores, and sorrowes?

Enter Alice.

Alice

O deere brother, The Gentleman if ev••r you will see him Alive as I think.

Enter Cellide.

Cel.

O he faints, for heaven sake, For heaven sake sir.

Val.

Goe comfort him deere sister.

Exit Alice.

And one word sweet, with you: then we'l go to him. What think you of this Gentleman?

Cel.

My pity thinks sir, 'Tis great misfortune, that he should thus perish.

Val.

It is indeed: but Cellide, he must dye.

Cel.

That were a cruelty, when care may cure him, Why doe you weep so sir, he may recover?

Val.

He may, but with much danger: my sweet Cellide You have a powerfull tongue.

Cel.

To doe you service.

Val.

J will betray his griefe: he loves a gentlewoman, A friend of yours, whose heart another holds, He knowes it too: yet such a sway blinde fancy, And his not daring to deliver it, Have won upon him, that they must undoe him: Never so hopefull and so sweet a spirit, Misfortune fell so foule on.

Cel.

Sure she's hard hearted, That can looke on, and not relent, and deeply At such a misery: she is not married?

Val.

Not yet.

Cel.

Nor neere it?

Val.

When she please.

Cel.

And pray sir, Do's he deserve her truely, that she loves so?

Val.

His love may merit much: his person little, For there the match lyes mangled.

Cel.

Is he your friend?

Ʋal.

He should be, for he is neere me.

Cel.

Will not he dye then? When th'other shall recover?

Val.

Ye have pos'd me.

Cell.

Me thinks he should goe neere it, if he love her; If she love him

Val.

She do's, and would doe equall:

Cel.

'Tis A hard taske you put me: yet for your sake I will speake to her: all the art I have: My best endevors: all his youth, and person, His mind more full of beautis: all his hopes, The memory of such a sad example, Ill spoken of, and never old: the curses Of loving maids, and what may be alleag'd Ile lay before her: what's her name? I am ready

Val.

But will you deale effectually?

Cell.

Most truly: Nay were it my selfe, at your entreaty.

Vall.

And could ye be so pittifull?

Cell.

So dutifull; Because you urge it sir,

Ʋall.

It may be then It is your selfe

Cell.

It is in deed, I know it. And now know how ye love me.

Vall.

O my dearest, Let but your goodnesse judge: your owne part: pitiy: Set but your eyes on his afflictions: He is mine, and so becomes your charge: but thinke What ruine nature suffers in this yong man, What losse humanity, and noble manhood: Take to your better judgement my declining, My age, hung full of impotence, and ils, My body budding now no more: seere winter Hath seal'd that sap up, at the best and happiest I can but be your infant: you my nurse, And how unequall deerest: where his yeeres, His sweetnesse, and his ever spring of goodnesse, My fortunes growing in him, and my selfe too, Which makes him all your old love: misconceive not, I say not this, as weary of my bondage, Or ready to infringe my faith: beare witnesse,

Those eyes that I adore still, those lamps that light me To all the joy I have.

Cel.

You have said enough sir, And more then ere I thought that tongue could utter, But ye are a man, a false man too.

Ʋal.

Deere Cellide.

Cel.

And now, to shew you that I am a woman Rob'd of her rest, and fool'd out of her fondnesse, The Gentleman shall live: and if he love me, Ye shall be both my triumphs: I will to him, And as you carelesly fling off your fortune, And now grow weary of my easie winning, So will I lose the name of Valentine, From henceforth all his flatteries, and beleeve it, Since ye have so so slightly parted with affection, And that affection you have pawn'd your faith for: From this houre, no repentance, vowes, nor prayers Shall plucke me backe agen: what I shall doe, Yet I will undertake his cure, expect it, Shall minister no comfort, no content To either of ye, but hourely more vexations.

Ʋal.

Why let him dye then.

Cel.

No, so much I have loved To be commanded by you, that even now, Even in my hate I will obey your wishes.

Val.

What shall I doe?

Cel.

Dye like a foole unsorrow'd? A bankrupt foole, that flings away his treasure? I must begin my cure.

Ʋal.

And I my crosses.

Exeunt.