Beaumont and Fletcher's Works, Vol. 04 of 10Fletcher, John
General
Beaumont and Fletcher's Works, Vol. 04 of 10
Fletcher, John
English drama
_John._ Haste ye Sirrah,
I must ev'n make her drunk; nay gentle mother.
_Lan._ Now fie upon ye, was it for this purpose
You fetch'd your evening walks for your digestions,
For this pretended holiness? no weather,
Not before day could hold ye from the Matins.
Were these your bo-peep prayers? ye'have pray'd well,
And with a learned zeal: watcht well too; your Saint
It seems was pleas'd as well: still sicker, sicker.
_Enter_ Anthony, _with a bottle of wine_.
_Joh._ There is no talking to her till I have drencht her.
Give me: here mother take a good round draught,
'Twill purge spleen from your spirits: deeper mother.
_Lan._ I, I, son, you imagine this will mend all.
_John._ All i' faith Mother.
_Lan._ I confess the Wine
Will do his part.
_John._ I'le pledge ye.
_Lan._ But son _John_.
_Joh._ I know your meaning mother; touch it once more,
Alas you look not well; take a round draught,
It warms the bloud well, and restores the colour,
And then we'll talk at large.
_Lan._ A civil Gentleman?
A stranger? one the Town holds a good regard of?
_John._ Nay I will silence thee.
_Lan._ One that should weigh his fair name? oh, a stitch!
_Joh._ There's nothing better for a stitch, good Mother,
Make no spare of it, as you love your health,
Mince not the matter.
_Land._ As I said, a Gentleman,
Lodge in my house? now heav'ns my comfort, Signior!
_John._ I look'd for this.
_Lan._ I did not think you would have us'd me thus;
A woman of my credit: one, heaven knows,
That lov'd you but too tenderly.
_John._ Dear Mother,
I ever found your kindness, and [ac]knowledge it.
_Lan._ No, no, I am a fool to counsel ye. Where's the infant?
Come, let's see your Workmanship.
_John._ None of mine, Mother,
But there 'tis, and a lusty one.
_Land._ Heaven bless thee,
Thou hadst a hasty making; but the best is,
'Tis many a good mans fortune: as I live
Your own eyes Signior, and the nether lip
As like ye, as ye had spit it.
_John._ I am glad on't.
_Lan._ Bless me, what things are these?
_John._ I thought my labour
Was not all lost, 'tis gold, and these are jewels,
Both rich, and right I hope.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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