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

Scena Quarta.

Enter Hylas and Sam.

Hyl.

I Care not for my broken head, But that it should be his plot, and a wench too, A lowzie, lazie wench prepar'd to doe it.

Sam.

Thou hadst as good be quiet, for o' my conscience He'l put another on thee else.

Hyl.

I am resolv'd To call him to account, was it not manifest He meant a mischiefe to me, and laughed at me, When he lay roaring out, his leg was broken, And no such matter: had he broke his necke, Indeed 'twould ne'r ha griev'd me: gallowes gall him, Why should he choose out me?

Sam.

Thou art ever ready To thrust thy selfe into these she occasions, And he as full of knavery to accept it.

Hyl.

Well, if I live, I'le have a new tricke for him.

Sam.

That will not be amisse, but to fight with him Is to no purpose: besides, he's truely valiant, And a most deadly hand: thou never foughtst yet, Not o' my conscience hast no faith in fighting.

Hyl.

No, no, I will not fight.

Sam,

B••side the quarrell,

Which has a woman in't, to make it scurvy, Who would lye stinking in a Surgeons hands A moneth or two this weather; for beleeve it, He never hurts under a quarters healing.

Hyl.

No upon better thought, I will not fight Sam, But watch my time

Sam.

To pay him with a project: Watch him too, I would wish ye: prethee tell me, Do'st thou affect these women still?

Hyl.

Yes faith Sam, I love 'em ev'n as well as ev'r I did, Nay, if my braines were beaten out, I must to 'em.

Sam.

Dost thou love any woman?

Hyl.

Any woman Of what degree or calling.

Sam.

Of any age too?

Hyl.

Of any age, from fourscore to fourteen boy, Of any fashion.

Sam.

And defect too?

Hyl.

Right. For those I love to leade me to repentance: A woman with no nose, after my surquedry, Shewes like King Philips morall, memento mori, And she that has a wodden leg, demonstrates Like Hypocrites, we halt before the gallowes: An old one with one tooth, seemes to say to us Sweet meats have sowre sawce: she that's full of aches, Crum not your bread before you taste your porridge, And many morals we may finde.

Sam.

'Tis well sir, Ye make so worthy uses: but quid igitur, What shall we now determine?

Hyl.

Let's consider, An houre or two, how I may fit this fellow.

Sam.

Let's finde him first, he'l quickly give occasion, But take heed to your selfe, and say I warn'd ye: He has a plaguy pate.

Hyl.

That at my danger.

Exeunt. Musick.