Laun. Your Worship is erroneous,
For as I told you, your Son Tom, or Thomas,
My master and your Son is now arriv'd
To ask you, as our Language bears it nearest,
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 soul, Boy,
Infinite glad I am, I have pray'd too, Thomas,
For you wild Thomas, Tom, I thank thee heartily
For coming home.
Thom. Sir, I do find your Prayers
Have much prevail'd above my sins.
Seb. How's this?
Thom. Else certain I had perish'd with my rudeness,
Ere I had won my self to that discretion,
I hope you shall hereafter find.
Seb. Humh, humh,
Discretion? is it come to that? the Boy's spoil'd.
Thom. Sirrah, you Rogue, look for't, for I will make thee
Ten times more miserable than thou thought'st thy self
Before thou travell'dst; thou hast told my Father,
I know it, and I find it, all my Rogueries
By meer 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.
Thom. But that I must be civil,
I would beat thee like a Dog. Sir, however
The Time I have mispent may make you doubtful,
Nay harden your belief 'gainst my Conversion.