_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. _Seb._ A pox o' travel, I say. _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. _Thom._ Not for the world: but where's my Mistress, And prithee say how does she? I melt to see her, And presently: I must away. _Dor._ Then do so, For o' my faith, she will not see you Brother. _Thom._ Not see me? I'll--