Monsieur Thomas (Father's Own Son) · chunk 4 of 42
Fletcher, John · published 1639 · first performed or written 1615 [1610-c.1616] (Annals) comedy · Unknown · Blackfriars unassigned nearest T51 Parents and children: blessing, birthrig · 484 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T51: esau, iacob, father, son, isaac, god, love, birthright, parents, thing.
Sirrah, do not conjure me with your French furies. Che ditt'a vou, Monsieur. Che doga vou, Rascal: Leave me your rotten language, and tell me plainly And quickly sirrah, left I crack your French crown, What your good Master means: I have maintained You and your Monsieur, as I take it Lancelot These two years at your ditty vous, your jours: Jour me no more, for not another penny Shall pass my purse. Your Worship is erroneous, For as I told you, your Son Tom, or Thomas, My Master, and your son is now arrived To ask ye, as our language bears it nearest Your quotidian blessing, and here he is in person. What Tom, boy, welcome with all my heart boy, Welcome i'faith, thou hast gladded me at soul boy, Infinite glad I am, I have prayed too, Thomas For you wild Thomas, Tom, I thank thee heartily For coming home. Sir, I do find your prayers Have much much prevailed above my sins. How's this? Else certain I had perished with my rudeness, Ere I had won myself to that discretion I hope you shall hereafter find. Humh, humh, Discretion? is it come to that? the boy's spoilt. Sirrah, you rogue, look for't, for I will make thee Ten times more miserable than thou thoughtst thyself Before thou travelledst: thou hast told my father I know it, and I find it, all my rogueries By mere way of prevention to undo me. Sir, as I speak eight languages, I only Told him you came to ask his benediction, De jour enjour. 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, A pox o' travel, I say. Yet dear father Your own experience in my after courses. Prithee no more; 'tis scurvy; there's thy sister Undone without redemption: he eats with picks Utterly spoilt, his spirit baffled in him. How have I find 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 over his head that thus transformed 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 mewed 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. Excellent sister, I am glad to see thee well: but where's my father? Gone discontent, it seems.
seed 43: unassigned · seed 44: unassigned — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Sirha, do not conjure me with your French furies. Che ditt'a vou, Monſieur. Che doga vou, Raſcall: Leave me your rotten language, and tell me plainely And quickly ſirha, left I crack your French crowne, What your good Maſter meanes: I have maintain'd You and your Monſieur, as I take it Launcelot Theſe two yeeres at your ditty vous, your jours: Jour me no more, for not another penny Shall paſſe my purſe. Your Worſhip is erroneous, For as I told you, your Sonne Tom, or Thomas, My Maſter, and your ſonne is now arriv'd To aske ye, as our language beares it neereſt Your quotidian bleſſing, and here he is in perſon. What Tom, boy, welcome with all my heart boy, Welcome 'faith, thou haſt gladded me at ſoule boy, Infinite glad I am, I have praied too, Thomas For you wilde Thomas, Tom, I thank thee hartily For comming home. Sir, I doe finde your prayers Have much much prevail'd above my ſins. How's this? Elſe certaine I had periſh'd with my rudeneſſe, Ere J had won my ſelfe to that diſcretion I hope you ſhall hereafter finde. Humh, humh, Diſcretion? is it come to that? the boy's ſpoild. Sirah, you rogue, look for't, for I will make thee Ten times more miſerable then thou thoughtſt thy ſelfe Before thou travelledſt: thou haſt told my father I know it, and I finde it, all my rogueries By meere way of prevention to undoe me. Sir, as J ſpeake eight languages, I onely Told him you came to aske his benediction, De jour enjour. But that I muſt be civill, I would beat thee like a dog: ſir, howſoever The time I have miſpent may make you doubtfull, Nay, harden your beliefe 'gainſt my converſion, A pox o' travell, I ſay. Yet deere father Your owne experience in my after courſes. Prethee no more; t'is ſcurvy; ther's thy ſiſter Vndon without redemption: he eates with picks Vtterly ſpoyld, his ſpirit baffell'd in him. How have I find that this affliction Should light ſo heavie on me. I have no more ſonnes; And this no more mine owne, no ſpark of nature Allows him mine now, he's growne tame: my grand curſe Hang ore his head that thus transform'd thee: travell? Ile ſend my horſe to travell next: we monſieur, Now will my moſt canonicall deere neighbours Say I have found my ſonne, 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 goe ſeeke an heire, for my inheritance Muſt not turne ſecretary: my name and quality Has kept my land three hundred yeers in madneſſe, And it ſlip now, may it ſinke. Excellent ſiſter, I am glad to ſee thee well: but wher's my father? Gone diſcontent, it ſeemes.