And, my best sister, you as dear to my sight,
And pray let this confirm it: How you have
govern'd

My poor state in my absence, how my servants,
I dare, and must believe (else I should wrong ye)
The best and worthiest.

Alice. As my woman's wit, sir,
Which is but weak and crazy.

Val. But, good Alice,

Tell me how fares the gentle Cellidè,
The life of my affection, since my travel,
My long and lazy travel? Is her love still
Upon the growing hand? does it not stop
And wither at my years? has she not view'd
And entertain'd some younger smooth behaviour,
Some youth but in his blossom, as herself is?
There lie my fears.

Alice. They need not; for, believe me,

So well you have managed her, and won her mind,
Even from her hours of childhood to this ripeness
(And, in your absence, that by me enforced still),
So well distill'd your gentleness into her,
Observed her, fed her fancy, lived still in her,
And, though Love be a boy, and ever youthful,
And young and beauteous objects ever aim'd at,
Yet here you have gone beyond Love, better'd
Nature,

Made him appear in years, in grey years fiery,
His bow at full bent ever. Fear not, brother;
For though your body has been far off from her,
Yet every hour your heart, which is your goodness,
I have forced into her, won a place prepared too,

And willingly, to give it ever harbour;

Believe she is so much your's, and won by miracle, (Which is by age) so deep a stamp set on her

By your observances, she cannot alter.
Were the child living now you lost at sea

Among the Genoa gallies, what a happiness!
What a main blessing!

Val. Oh, no more, good sister;

Touch no more that string, 'tis too harsh and

Val. A gentleman, I do assure myself,
And of a worthy breeding, though he hide it.
I found him at Valentia, poor and needy,
Only his mind the master of a treasure:

I sought his friendship, won 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 partner,
But only-

Alice. I observe you; hold your right there;

Val. None, but new men expected, such as you To breed new admirations. 'Tis my sister; [are, 'Pray you know her, sir.

Hylas. With all my heart. Your leave, lady? Alice. You have it, sir. [They salute. Hylas. A shrewd smart touch! which does [Aside.

prognosticate

A body keen and active: Somewhat old,
But that's all one; age brings experience
And knowledge to dispatch.-I must be better,
And nearer in my service, with your leave sir,
To this fair lady.

Val. What, the old 'Squire of Dames still?
Hylas. Still the admirer of their goodness.
With all my heart now,

I love a woman of her years, a pacer,
That, lay the bridle on her neck, will travel-
Forty, and somewhat fulsome, is a fine dish;
These young colts are too skittish.

[Aside.

But where's my blessed Cellide? Her slackness In visitation

Mary. Think not so, dear uncle;

I left her on her knees, thanking the gods
With tears and prayers.

Val. You have given me too much comfort.
Mary. She will not be long from you.
Hylas. Your fair cousin?

Val. It is so, and a bait you cannot balk, sir,
If your old rule reign in you. You may know her.
Hylas. A happy stock you have.-Right worthy
The poorest of your servants vows his duty [lady,
And obliged faith.

Mary. Oh, 'tis a kiss you would, sir; Take it, and tie your tongue up.

Hylas. I'm an ass,

I do perceive now, a blind ass, a blockhead;
For this is handsomeness, this that that draws 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 and bears
pace,
Her silver breasts! This is the woman, she,
And only she, that I will so much honour
As to think worthy of my love; all older idols
I heartily abhor, and give to gunpowder,
And all complexions besides hers, to gypsies.

Enter FRANCISCO at one door, and CELLIDE at another.
Val. Oh, my dear life, my better heart! all
Distresses in my travel, all misfortunes, [dangers,
Had they been endless like the hours upon me,
In this kiss had been buried in oblivion.
How happy have you made me, truly happy!

Cel. My joy has so much over-master'd me, That, in my tears for your return

Val. Oh, dearest !

My noble friend too? What a blessedness
Have I about me now! how full my wishes
Are come again! A thousand hearty welcomes
I once more lay upon you! All I have,
The fair and liberal use of all my servants
To be at your command, and all the uses
Of all within my power,-

Fran. (You're too munificent;

Nor am I able to conceive those thanks, sir-
Val. You wrong my tender love now)—even my
service;

Nothing excepted; nothing stuck between us
And our entire affections, but this woman;
This I beseech ye, friend-

Fran. It is a jewel,

Dull, old, and tedious: You are once more welcome
As your own thoughts can make ye, and the same
And so we'll in to ratify it.
[ever:

Hylas. Hark ye, Valentine:
Is Wild-Oats yet come over?
Val. Yes, with me, sir.

Mary. How does he bear himself?

Val. A great deal better.

Why do you blush? The gentleman will do well. Mary. I should be glad on't, sir.

Val. How does his father?

Hylas. As mad a worm as e'er he was.

Val. I look'd for't;

Shall we enjoy your company?

Hylas. I'll wait on ye: Only a thought or two.

[Exeunt all but HYLAS.

Val. We bar all prayers.
Hylas. This last wench! ay, this last wench

was a fair one,

A dainty wench, a right one! A devil take it,
What do I ail? to have fifteen now in liking!
Enough, a man would think, to stay my stomach:
But what's fifteen, or fifteen score, to my thoughts?
And wherefore are mine eyes made, and have lights,
But to increase my objects? This last wench
Sticks plaguy close unto me; a hundred pound
I were as close to her! If I loved now,
As many foolish men do, I should run mad. [Exit.

SCENE II.-An Apartment in SEBASTIAN'S House.

Enter SEBASTIAN and LAUNCELOT.

Seb. Sirrah, no more of your French shrugs, I If you be lousy, shift yourself. [advise you!

Laun. May it please your worship—

Seb. Only to see my son; my son, good LaunYour master and my son! Body o' me, sir, [celot; No money, no more money, Monsieur Launcelot, Not a denier, sweet signior! Bring the person, The person of my boy, my boy Tom, Monsieur Thomas,

Or get you gone again! Du gata whee, sir!
Bassa mi cu, good Launcelot! valetote!
My boy, or nothing!

Laun. Then, to answer punctually,-
Seb. I say to th' purpose.

Laun. Then I say to th' purpose;
Because your worship's vulgar understanding

May meet me at the nearest: Your son, my master,
Or Monsieur Thomas (for so his travel styles him),
Through many foreign plots that virtue meets with,
And dangers (I beseech you give attention)
Is at the last arrived,

To ask your (as the Frenchman calls it sweetly)
Benediction de jour en jour.

Seb. Sirrah, don't conjure me with your French
Laun. Che ditt'a vous, monsieur ?
Seb. Che doga vou, rascal!

[furies.

Leave me your rotten language, and tell me plainly,
And quickly, sirrah, lest I crack your French crown,
What your good master means. I have maintain'd
You and your monsieur, as I take it, Launcelot,
These two years at your ditty vous, your jours!
Jour me no more; for not another penny
Shall pass my purse.

Laun. Your worship is erroneous;
For, as I told you, your son Tom, or Thomas,
My master and your son, is now arrived
To ask you (as our language bears it nearest)
Your quotidian blessing; and here he is in person.

Discretion? is it come to that? the boy's spoil'd. Tho. Sirrah, you rogue, look for't! for I will make thee

Ten times more miserable than thou thought'st thyself

Before thou travell'dst: Thou hast told my father (I know it, and I find it) all my rogueries, By mere way of prevention, to undo me.

Laun. Sir, as I speak eight languages, I only Told him you came to ask his benediction, De jour en jour!

Tho. But that I must be civil,

I would beat thee like a dog.-Sir, howsoever
The time I have misspent, may make you doubtful,
Nay, harden your belief 'gainst my conversion-
Seb. A pox o' travel, I say!

Tho. Yet, dear father,

Your own experience in my after-courses

Enter DOROTHEA.

Seb. Pr'ythee no more; 'tis scurvy! There's thy sister.

Undone, without redemption! he eats with picks;
Utterly spoil'd, his spirit baffled in him!
How have I sinn'd, that this affliction
Should light so heavy on me? I have no more sons,
And this no more mine own; no spark of nature
Allows him mine now; he's grown tame. My
grand curse

Hang o'er his head that thus transform'd thee:
Travel!

I'll send my horse to travel next!-We, Monsieur!
Now will my most canonical dear neighbours
Say. I have found my son, and rejoice with me,
Because he has mew'd his mad tricks off. I know

Tho. He did ill in it,

As he does all; for I was uttering

A handsome speech or two, I have been studying E'er since I came from Paris. How glad to see thee!

Dor. I am gladder to see you (with more love too, I dare maintain it) than my father's sorry To see (as he supposes) your conversion; And I am sure he's vexed; nay, more, I know it; He has pray'd against it mainly: But it appears, sir, You had rather blind him with that poor opinion Than in yourself correct it. Dearest brother, Since there is in our uniform resemblance No more to make us two but our bare sexes, And since one happy birth produced us hither, Let one more happy mind

Tho. It shall be, sister;

For o' my faith she will not see you, brother.
Tho. Not see me? I'll-

Dor. Now you play your true self;
How would my father love this! I'll assure you
She will not see you; she has heard (and loudly)
The gambols that you play'd since your departure,
In every town you came, your several mischiefs,
Your rouses and your wenches; all your quarrels,
And the no-causes of 'em; these, I take it,
Although she love you well, to modest ears,
To one that waited for your reformation,
To which end travel was propounded by her uncle,
Must needs, and reason for it, be examined,
And by her modesty and fear'd too light too,
To file with her affections: You have lost her,
For any thing I see, exiled yourself.

Tho. No more of that, sweet Doll; I will be Dor. But how long? [civil.

Tho. Wouldst thou have me lose my birthFor yond old thing will disinherit me, [right? If I grow too demure. Good sweet Doll, pr'ythee, Pr'ythee, dear sister, let me see her!

Dor. No.

Tho. Nay, I beseech thee. By this light——— Dor. Ay, swagger.

Tho. Kiss me, and be my friend; we two were And shall we now grow strangers? [twins,

Dor. 'Tis not my fault.

Tho. Well, there be other women; and remem

ber you,

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 you?
Dor. Come hither, come; do you see that cloud
that flies there?

So light are you, and blown with every fancy.
Will you but make me hope you may be civil?
I know your nature's sweet enough, and tender,
Not grated on, nor curb'd: Do you love your
Tho. He lies that says I do not. [mistress?
Dor. Would you see her?

Tho. If you please, for it must be so.
Dor. And appear to her

A thing to be beloved?

Alice. A body too

Mary. Far neater,

And better set together.

Alice. God forgive thee!

[straighter

You stole away and left my company.

Dor. Oh, pardon me, dear friend; it was to welcome

A brother, that I have some cause to love well. Mary. Pr'ythee how is he? thou speak'st truth. Dor. Not perfect;

I hope he will be.

Mary. Never. He has forgot me,

I hear, wench, and his hot love too-
Alice. Thou wouldst howl then.

Mary. And I am glad it should be so: His
Have yielded him variety of mistresses,
Fairer in his eye far.

Alice. Oh, cogging rascal!

[travels

Mary. I was a fool, but better thoughts, I thank Heaven

Dor. Pray do not think so, for he loves you dearly,

Upon my troth, most firmly; would fain see you.
Mary. See me, friend! Do you think it fit?
Dor. It may be,

Without the loss of credit too: He's not
Such a prodigious thing, so monstrous,
To fling from all society.

Mary. He's so much contrary

To my desires, such an antipathy,

That I must sooner see my grave.

Dor. Dear friend,

He was not so before he went.

Mary. I grant it,

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
If I have any interest within you, [friend's sake,
Do but this courtesy, accept this letter.
Mary. From him?

Dor. The same. 'Tis but a minute's reading;
And, as we look on shapes of painted devils,
Which for the present may disturb our fancy,
But with the next new object lose 'em, so,
If this be foul, you may forget it. 'Pray!
Mary. Have you seen it, friend?
Dor. I will not lie, I have not;

But I presume, so much he honours you,
The worst part of himself was cast away
When to his best part he writ this.
Mary. For your sake;

Not that I any way shall like his scribbling

Are like the course of quartans; they may shift,
And seem to cease sometimes, and yet we see
The least distemper pulls 'em back again,
And seats 'em in their old course: Fear her not,
Unless he be a devil.

Mary. Now Heaven bless me!
Dor. What has he writ?
Mary. Out, out upon him!

Dor. Ha! what has the madman done ?
Mary. Worse, worse, and worse still!
Alice. Some Northern toy, a little broad.
Mary. Still fouler !

Hey, hey, boys! Goodness keep me! Oh!
Dor. What ail you?

Mary. Here, take your spell again; it burns

my fingers.

Was ever lover writ so sweet a letter,

So elegant a style? Pray look upon't;
The rarest inventory of rank oaths
That ever cut-purse cast.

Alice. What a mad boy is this!
Mary. Only i' th' bottom

A little julep gently sprinkled over

To cool his mouth, lest it break out in blisters; "Indeed la, yours for ever."

Dor. I am sorry.

To health again the affected body by it,
And make it stronger far, as leave it dangerous.
How does my sweet? Our blessed hour comes on
Apace, my Cellidè (it knocks at door),

[now
In which our loves and long desires, like rivers
Rising asunder far, shall fall together.
Within these two days, dear-