Thom. Yet dear Father
Your own experience in my after courses.
Enter Dorothea.
Seb. Prithee 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 sin'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'r 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 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 go seek an Heir, for my inheritance
Must not turn Secretary; my name and quality
Has kept my Land three hundred years in madness,
And it slip now, may it sink. [Exit.
Thom. Excellent Sister,
I am glad to see thee well; but where's thy father?
Dor. Gone discontent, it seems.
Thom. He did ill in it
As he does all; for I was utte[r]ing
A handsome Speech or two, I have been studying
E'r 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 is vext, 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 your self 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 produc'd us hither,
Let one more happy mind.
Thom. It shall be, Sister,
For I can do it when I list; and yet, Wench,
Be mad too when I please; I have the trick on't:
Beware a Traveller.
Dor. Leave that trick too.