Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE ORPHAN, by THOMAS OTWAY

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE ORPHAN, by THOMAS OTWAY Poet Analysis Poet's Biography
First Line: To you, great judges in this writing age
Last Line: Of the next sparks that go a fortune-stealing.

PROLOGUE.

TO you, great judges in this writing age,
The sons of wit, and patrons of the stage,
With all those humble thoughts which still have swayed
His pride, much doubting, trembling, and afraid
Of what is to his want of merit due,
And awed by every excellence in you,
The author sends to beg you would be kind,
And spare those many faults you needs must find.
You to whom wit a common foe is grown,
The thing ye scorn and publicly disown;
Though now perhaps you're here for other ends,
He swears to me, ye ought to be his friends:
For he ne'er called ye yet insipid tools;
Nor wrote one line to tell you ye were fools:
But says of wit ye have so large a store,
So very much, you never will have more.
He ne'er with libel treated yet the town,
The names of honest men bedaubed and shown;
Nay, never once lampooned the harmless life
Of suburb-virgin, or of city-wife.
Satire's the effect of poetry's disease,
Which, sick of a lewd age, she vents for ease,
But now her only strife should be to please;
Since of ill fate the baneful cloud's withdrawn,
And happiness again begins to dawn;
Since back with joy and triumph he is come,
That always drove fears hence, ne'er brought them home.
Oft has he ploughed the boisterous ocean o'er,
Yet ne'er more welcome to the longing shore,
Not when he brought home victories before.
For then fresh laurels flourished on his brow,
And he comes crowned with olive-branches now;
Receive him! oh, receive him as his friends;
Embrace the blessings which he recommends:
Such quiet as your foes shall ne'er destroy;
Then shake off fears, and clap your hands for joy.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

ACASTO, a Nobleman retired from Court, and living privately in the Country.
CASTALIO, Twin Son of Acasto.
POLYDORE, Twin Son of Acasto
CHAMONT, a young Soldier of Fortune.
ERNESTO, Servant to Acasto.
PAULINO, Servant to Acasto.
CORDELIO, Polydore's Page.
Chaplain.
Servants.

MONIMIA, the Orphan, left under the Guardianship of Acasto.
SERINA, Acasto's Daughter.
FLORELLA, Monimia's Woman.

SCENE—BOHEMIA.

ACT THE FIRST.

SCENE I.—An Ante-Room in ACASTO'S House.

Enter PAULINO and ERNESTO.

PAUL. 'Tis strange, Ernesto, this severity
Should still reign powerful in Acasto's mind,
To hate the court, where he was bred, and lived,
All honours heaped on him that power could give.
Ern. 'Tis true; he thither came a private gentleman,
But young and brave, and of a family
Ancient and noble as the empire holds.
The honours he has gained are justly his,—
He purchased them in war; thrice has he led
An army 'gainst the rebels, and as often
Returned with victory: the world has not
A truer soldier, or a better subject.
Paul. It was his virtue at first made me serve him;
He is the best of masters, as of friends.
I know he has lately been invited thither;
Yet still he keeps his stubborn purpose; cries,
He's old, and willingly would be at rest:
I doubt there's deep resentment in his mind,
For the late slight his honour suffered there.
Ern. Has he not reason? When, for what he had borne,—
Long, hard, and faithful toil,—he might have claimed
Places in honour, and employment high,
A huffing, shining, flattering, cringing coward,
A canker-worm of peace, was raised above him.
Paul. Yet still he holds just value for the king,
Nor ever names him but with highest reverence.
'Tis noble that—
Ern. Oh! I have heard him, wanton in his praise,
Speak things of him might charm the ears of envy.
Paul. Oh! may he live till Nature's self grow old,
And from her womb no more can bless the earth!
For, when he dies, farewell all honour, bounty,
All generous encouragement of arts!
For Charity herself becomes a widow.
Ern. No, he has two sons, that were ordained to be
As well his virtues', as his fortune's heirs.
Paul. They're both of nature mild, and full of sweetness;
They came twins from the womb, and still they live
As if they would go twins too to the grave.
Neither has anything he calls his own,
But of each other's joys, as griefs, partaking;
So very honestly, so well they love,
As they were only for each other born.
Ern. Never was parent in an offspring happier!
He has a daughter too, whose blooming age
Promises goodness equal to her beauty.
Paul. And as there is a friendship 'twixt the brethren,
So has her infant nature chosen too
A faithful partner of her thoughts and wishes,
And kind companion of her harmless pleasures.
Ern. You mean the beauteous orphan, fair Monimia.
Paul. The same, the daughter of the brave Chamont.
He was our lord's companion in the wars;
Where such a wondrous friendship grew between them
As only death could end. Chamont's estate
Was ruined in our late and civil discords;
Therefore, unable to advance her fortune,
He left his daughter to our master's care,—
To such a care, as she scarce lost a father.
Ern. Her brother to the emperor's wars went early,
To seek a fortune, or a noble fate;
Whence he with honour is expected back,
And mighty marks of that great prince's favour.
Paul. Our master never would permit his sons
To launch for fortune in the uncertain world;
But warns them to avoid both courts and camps,
Where dilatory Fortune plays the jilt
With the brave, noble, honest, gallant man,
To throw herself away on fools and knaves.
Ern. They both have forward, generous, active spirits:
'Tis daily their petition to their father,
To send them forth where glory's to be gotten;
They cry they're weary of their lazy home,
Restless to do some thing that Fame may talk of.
To-day they chased the boar, and near this time
Should be returned.
Paul. Oh, that's a royal sport!
We yet may see the old man in a morning,
Lusty as health, come ruddy to the field,
And there pursue the chase, as if he meant
To o'ertake time, and bring back youth again.
[Exeunt PAULINO and ERNESTO.

Enter CASTALIO, POLYDORE, and Page.

Cast. Polydore, our sport
Has been to-day much better for the danger:
When on the brink the foaming boar I met,
And in his side thought to have lodged my spear,
The desperate savage rushed within my force,
And bore me headlong with him down the rock.
Pol. But then—
Cast. Ay, then, my brother, my friend Polydore,
Like Perseus mounted on his wingèd steed,
Came on, and down the dangerous precipice leaped
To save Castalio. 'Twas a god-like act!
Pol. But when I came, I found you conqueror.
Oh, my heart danced to see your danger past!
The heat and fury of the chase was cooled,
And I had nothing in my mind but joy.
Cast. So, Polydore, methinks we might in war
Rush on together; thou shouldst be my guard,
And I be thine; what is't could hurt us then?
Now half the youth of Europe are in arms,
How fulsome must it be to stay behind,
And die of rank diseases here at home!
Pol. No, let me purchase in my youth renown,
To make me loved and valued when I'm old:
I would be busy in the world, and learn,
Not like a coarse and useless dunghill-weed,
Fixed to one spot, and rot just as I grew.
Cast. Our father
Has ta'en himself a surfeit of the world,
And cries it is not safe that we should taste it:
I own I've duty very powerful in me;
And, though I'd hazard all to raise my name,
Yet he's so tender and so good a father,
I could not do a thing to cross his will.
Pol. Castalio, I have doubts within my heart,
Which you, and only you, can satisfy:
Will you be free and candid to your friend?
Cast. Have I a thought my Polydore should not know?
What can this mean?
Pol. Nay, I'll conjure you too,
By all the strictest bonds of faithful friendship,
To show your heart as naked in this point
As you would purge you of your sins to Heaven.
Cast. I will.
Pol. And, should I chance to touch it nearly, bear it
With all the sufferance of a tender friend.
Cast. As calmly as the wounded patient bears
The artist's hand that ministers his cure.
Pol. That's kindly said. You know our father's ward,
The fair Monimia;—is your heart at peace?
Is it so guarded that you could not love her?
Cast. Suppose I should?
Pol. Suppose you should not, brother?
Cast. You'd say, I must not.
Pol. That would sound too roughly
'Twixt friends and brothers, as we two are.
Cast. Is love a fault?
Pol. In one of us it may be:
What if I love her?
Cast. Then I must inform you
I loved her first, and cannot quit the claim,But will preserve the birthright
of
my passion.
Pol. You will?
Cast. I will.
Pol. No more, I've done.
Cast. Why not?
Pol. I told you I had done;
But you, Castalio, would dispute it.
Cast. No,
Not with my Polydore; though I must own
My nature obstinate and void of sufferance.
Love reigns a very tyrant in my heart,
Attended on his throne by all his guards
Of furious wishes, fears, and nice suspicions.
I could not bear a rival in my friendship,
I am so much in love, and fond of thee.
Pol. Yet you would break this friendship
Cast. Not for crowns.
Pol. But for a toy you would, a woman's toy: Unjust Castalio!
Cast. Pr'ythee, where's my fault?
Pol. You love Monimia.
Cast. Yes.
Pol. And you would kill me,
If I 'm your rival.
Cast. No, sure we're such friends,
So much one man, that our affections too
Must be united, and the same as we are.
Pol. I dote upon Monimia.
Cast. Love her still;
Win, and enjoy her.
Pol. Both of us cannot.
Cast. No matter
Whose chance it prove; but let's not quarrel for't.
Pol. You would not wed Monimia, would you?
Cast. Wed her!
No! were she all desire could wish, as fair
As would the vainest of her sex be thought,
With wealth beyond what woman's pride could waste,
She should not cheat me of my freedom. Marry!
When I am old and weary of the world,
I may grow desperate,
And take a wife to mortify withal.
Pol. It is an elder brother's duty so
To propagate his family and name:
You would not have yours die and buried with you?
Cast. Mere vanity, and silly dotage all:
No, let me live at large, and when I die—
Pol. Who shall possess the estate you leave?
Cast. My friend,
If he survives me; if not, my king,
Who may bestow't again on some brave man,
Whose honesty and services deserve one.
Pol. 'Tis kindly offered.
Cast. By yon Heaven, I love
My Polydore beyond all worldly joys,
And would not shock his quiet, to be blest
With greater happiness than man e'er tasted.
Pol. And by that Heaven eternally I swear
To keep the kind Castalio in my heart.
Whose shall Monimia be?
Cast. No matter whose.
Pol. Were you not with her privately last night?
Cast. I was, and should have met her here again;
But the opportunity shall now be thine;
Myself will bring thee to the scene of love:
But have a care, by friendship I conjure thee,
That no false play be offered to thy brother!
Urge all thy powers to make thy passion prosper,
But wrong not mine.
Pol. Heaven blast me if I do!
Cast. If't prove thy fortune, Polydore, to conquer,
(For thou hast all the arts of fine persuasion!)
Trust me, and let me know thy love's success,
That I may ever after stifle mine.
Pol. Though she be dearer to my soul than rest
To weary pilgrims, or to misers gold,
To great men power, or wealthy cities pride,
Rather than wrong Castalio, I'd forget her.
For if ye, powers, have happiness in store,
When ye would shower down joys on Polydore,
In one great blessing all your bounty send,
That I may never lose so dear a friend!
[Exeunt CASTALIO and POLYDORE.

Enter MONIMIA.

Mon. So soon returned from hunting? this fair day
Seems as if sent to invite the world abroad.
Passed not Castalio and Polydore this way?
Page. Madam, just now.
Mon. Sure some ill fate's upon me;
Distrust and heaviness sit round my heart,
And apprehension shocks my timorous soul.
Why was I not laid in my peaceful grave
With my poor parents, and at rest as they are?
Instead of that, I'm wandering into cares.
Castalio! O Castalio! thou hast caught
My foolish heart; and, like a tender child,
That trusts his plaything to another hand,
I fear its harm, and fain would have it back.
Come near, Cordelio. I must chide you, sir.
Page. Why, madam, have I done you any wrong?
Mon. I never see you now; you have been kinder;
Sat by my bed, and sung me pretty songs:
Perhaps I've been ungrateful: here's money for you:
Will you oblige me? shall I see you oftener?
Page. Madam, I'd serve you with my soul;
But in a morning when you call me to you,
As by your bed I stand and tell you stories,
I am ashamed to see your swelling breasts,
It makes me blush, they are so very white.
Mon. O men, for flattery and deceit renowned!
Thus when you're young ye learn it all like him,
Till, as your years increase, that strengthens too,
To undo poor maids, and make our ruin easy.
Tell me, Cordelio, for thou oft hast heard
Their friendly converse and their bosom-secrets;
Sometimes, at least, have they not talked of me?
Page. O madam! very wickedly they've talked:
But I'm afraid to name it; for theysay
Boys must be whipped that tell their master's secrets.
Mon. Fear not, Cordelio! it shall ne'er be known;
For I'll preserve the secret as 'twere mine.
Polydore cannot be so kind as I.
I'll furnish thee for all thy harmless sports
With pretty toys, and thou shalt be my page.
Page. And truly, madam, I had rather be so.
Methinks you love me better than my lord,
For he was never half so kind as you are.
What must I do?
Mon. Inform me how thou'st heard
Castalio, and his brother, use my name.
Page. With all the tenderness of love.
You were the subject of their last discourse:
At first I thought it would have fatal proved;
But, as the one grew hot, the other cooled,
And yielded to the frailty of his friend;
At last, after much struggling, 'twas resolved—
Mon. What, good Cordelio?
Page. Not to quarrel for you.
Mon. I would not have them; by my dearest hopes,
I would not be the argument of strife.
But surely my Castalio won't forsake me,
And make a mockery of my easy love?
Went they together?
Page. Yes, to seek you, madam.
Castalio promised Polydore to bring him
Where he alone might meet you,
And fairly try the fortune of his wishes.
Mon. Am I then grown so cheap, just to be made
A common stake, a prize for love in jest?
Was not Castalio very loth to yield it?
Or was it Polydore's unruly passion
That heightened the debate?
Page. The fault was Polydore's.
Castalio played with love, and smiling showed
The pleasure, not the pangs of his desire.
He said no woman's smiles should buy his freedom,
And marriage is a mortifying thing.
Mon. Then I am ruined! if Castalio's false,
Where is there faith and honour to be found?
Ye Gods, that guard the innocent and guide
The weak, protect and take me to your care!
Oh, but I love him! there's the rock will wreck me
Why was I made with all my sex's softness,
Yet want the cunning to conceal its follies?
I'll see Castalio, tax him with his falsehoods,
Be a true woman, rail, protest my wrongs;
Resolve to hate him, and yet love him still.

Re-enter CASTALIO and POLYDORE.

He comes, the conqueror comes! lie still, my heart,
And learn to bear thy injuries with scorn.
Cast. Madam, my brother begs he may have leave
To tell you something that concerns you nearly;
I leave you, as becomes me, and withdraw.
Mon. My Lord Castalio!
Cast. Madam!
Mon. Have you purposed
To abuse me palpably? what means this usage?
Why am I left with Polydore alone?
Cast. He best can tell you. Business of importance
Calls me away; I must attend my father.
Mon. Will you then leave me thus?
Cast. But for a moment.
Mon. It has been otherwise; the time has been,
When business might have stayed, and I been heard.
Cast. I could for ever hear thee; but this time
Matters of such odd circumstances press me,
That I must go. [Exit.
Mon. Then go, and, if't be possible, for ever.—
Well, my Lord Polydore, I guess your business,
And read the ill-natured purpose in your eyes.
Pol. If to desire you more than misers wealth,
Or dying men an hour of added life;
If softest wishes, and a heart more true
Than ever suffered yet for love disdained,
Speak an ill-nature, you accuse me justly.
Mon. Talk not of love, my lord; I must not hear it.
Pol. Who can behold such beauty and be silent?
Desire first taught us words: man, when created,
At first alone, long wandered up and down,
Forlorn, and silent as his vassal-beasts;
But when a Heaven-born maid, like you, appeared,
Strange pleasures filled his eyes, and fired his heart,
Unloosed his tongue, and his first talk was love.
Mon. The first-created pair, indeed, were blest;
They were the only objects of each other,
Therefore he courted her, and her alone;
But in this peopled world of beauty, where
There's roving room, where you may court, and ruin
A thousand more, why need you talk to me?
Pol. Oh! I could talk to thee for ever; thus
Eternally admiring, fix and gaze
On those dear eyes; for every glance they send
Darts through my soul, and almost gives enjoyment.
Mon. How can you labour thus for my undoing?
I must confess, indeed, I owe you more
Than ever I can hope or think to pay.
There always was a friendship 'twixt our families;
And therefore when my tender parents died,
Whose ruined fortunes too expired with them,
Your father's pity and his bounty took me,
A poor and helpless orphan, to his care.
Pol. 'Twas Heaven ordained it so, to make me happy.
Hence with this peevish virtue! 'tis a cheat;
And those who taught it first were hypocrites.
Come, these soft tender limbs were made for yielding!
Mon. Here on my knees, by Heaven's blest power I swear, [Kneels.
If you persist, I ne'er henceforth will see you,
But rather wander through the world a beggar,
And live on sordid scraps at proud men's doors;
For, though to fortune lost, I still inherit
My mother's virtues, and my father's honour.
Pol. Intolerable vanity! your sex
Was never in the right; you're always false,
Or silly; even your dresses are not more
Fantastic than your appetites; you think
Of nothing twice; opinion you have none:
To-day you're nice, to-morrow not so free;
Now smile, then frown; now sorrowful, then glad;
Now pleased, now not; and all you know not why!
Virtue you affect, inconstancy's your practice;
And, when your loose desires once get dominion,
No hungry churl feeds coarser at a feast;
Every rank fool goes down—
Mon. Indeed, my lord,
I own my sex's follies; I've them all,
And, to avoid its faults, must fly from you.
Therefore, believe me, could you raise me high
As most fantastic woman's wish could reach,
And lay all nature's riches at my feet,
I'd rather run a savage in the woods
Amongst brute beasts, grow wrinkled and deformed
As wildness and most rude neglect could make me,
So I might still enjoy my honour safe
From the destroying wiles of faithless men. [Exit.
Pol. Who'd be that sordid foolish thing called man,
To cringe thus, fawn, and flatter for a pleasure,
Which beasts enjoy so very much above him?
The lusty bull ranges through all the field,
And, from the herd singling his female out,
Enjoys her, and abandons her at will.
It shall be so; I'll yet possess my love,
Wait on, and watch her loose unguarded hours;
Then, when her roving thoughts have been abroad,
And brought in wanton wishes to her heart,
In the very minute when her virtue nods,
I'll rush upon her in a storm of love,
Beat down her guard of honour all before me,
Surfeit on joys, till even desire grow sick;
Then by long absence liberty regain,
And quite forget the pleasure and the pain.
[Exeunt.

ACT THE SECOND.

SCENE I.—A Room in ACASTO'S House.

Enter ACASTO, CASTALIO, POLYDORE, and Attendants.

ACAST. To-day has been a day of glorious sport.
When you, Castalio, and your brother left me,
Forth from the thickets rushed another boar,
So large, he seemed the tyrant of the woods,
With all his dreadful bristles raised up high,
They seemed a grove of spears upon his back;
Foaming he came at me, where I was posted,
Best to observe which way he'd lead the chase,
Whetting his huge long tusks, and gaping wide,
As if he already had me for his prey;
Till, brandishing my well-poised javelin high,
With this bold executing arm, I struck
The ugly brindled monster to the heart.
Cast. The actions of your life were always wondrous.
Acast. No flattery, boy! an honest man can't live by't:
It is a little sneaking art, which knaves
Use to cajole and soften fools withal;
If thou hast flattery in thy nature, out with't,
Or send it to a court; for there 'twill thrive.
Pol. Why there?
Acast. 'Tis, next to money, current there;
To be seen daily in as many forms
As there are sorts of vanities, and men:
The supercilious statesman has his sneer
To smooth a poor man off with, that can't bribe him;
The grave dull fellow of small business soothes
The humourist, and will needs admire his wit.
Who without spleen could see a hot-brained atheist
Thanking a surly doctor for his sermon?
Or a grave counsellor meet a smooth young lord,
Squeeze him by the hand, and praise his good complexion?
Pol. Courts are the places where best manners flourish;
Where the deserving ought to rise, and fools
Make show. Why should I vex and chafe my spleen,
To see a gaudy coxcomb shine, when I
Have seen enough to soothe him in his follies,
And ride him to advantage as I please?
Acast. Who merit ought indeed to rise i' the world;
But no wise man that's honest should expect.
What man of sense would rack his generous mind,To practise all the base
formalities
And forms of business, force a grave starched face,
When he's a very libertine in's heart?
Seem not to know this or that man in public,
When privately perhaps they meet together,
And lay the scene of some brave fellow's ruin?
Such things are done—
Cast. Your lordship's wrongs have been
So great, that you with justice may complain;
But suffer us, whose younger minds ne'er felt
Fortune's deceits, to court her as she's fair.
Were she a common mistress, kind to all,
Her worth would cease, and half the world grow idle.
Acast. Go to, you're fools, and know me not; I've learnt
Long since to bear revenge, or scorn my wrongs,
According to the value of the doer.
You both would fain be great, and to that end
Desire to do things worthy your ambition:
Go to the camp, preferment's noblest mart,
Where honour ought to have the fairest play,
You'll find
Corruption, envy, discontent, and faction,
Almost in every band: how many men
Have spent their blood in their dear country's service,
Yet now pine under want, while selfish slaves,
That even would cut their throats whom now they fawn on,
Like deadly locusts, eat the honey up,
Which those industrious bees so hardly toiled for!
Cast. These precepts suit not with my active mind:
Methinks I would be busy.
Pol. So would I.
Not loiter out my life at home, and know
No farther than one prospect gives me leave.
Acast. Busy your minds then, study arts and men:
Learn how to value merit though in rags,
And scorn a proud ill-mannered knave in office.

Enter SERINA, MONIMIA, and FLORELLA.

Ser. My lord, my father!
Acast. Blessings on my child,
My little cherub! what hast thou to ask me?
Ser. I bring you, sir, most glad and welcome news:
The young Chamont, whom you've so often wished for,
Is just arrived and entering.
Acast. By my soul,
And all my honours, he's most dearly welcome;
Let me receive him like his father's friend.

Enter CHAMONT.

Welcome, thou relict of the best-loved man!
Welcome from all the turmoils, and the hazards
Of certain danger, and uncertain fortune!
Welcome as happy tidings after fears!
Cham. Words would but wrong the gratitude I owe you.
Should I begin to speak, my soul's so full
That I should talk of nothing else all day.
Mon. My brother!
Cham. Oh my sister! let me hold thee
Long in my arms. I've not beheld thy face
These many days; by night I've often seen thee
In gentle dreams, and satisfied my soul
With fancied joy, till morning cares awaked me.—
Another sister! sure it must be so;
Though, I remember well, I had but one:
But I feel something in my heart that promptsAnd tells me she has claim and
interest there.
Acast. Young soldier, you've not only studied war;
Courtship, I see, has been your practice too,
And may not prove unwelcome to my daughter.
Cham. Is she your daughter? then my heart told true!
And I'm at least her brother by adoption;
For you have made yourself to me a father,
And by that patent I have leave to love her.
Ser. Monimia, thou hast told me men are false,
Will flatter, feign, and make an art of love:
Is Chamont so? No, sure he's more than man,
Something that's near divine, and truth dwells in him.
Acast. Thus happy, who would envy pompous power,
The luxury of courts, or wealth of cities?
Let there be joy through all the house this day;
In every room let plenty flow at large;
It is the birth-day of my royal master.
You have not visited the court, Chamont,
Since your return?
Cham. I have no business there;
I have not slavish temperance enough
To attend a favourite's heels, and watch his smiles;
Bear an ill office done me to my face,
And thank the lord that wronged me for his favour.
Acast. This you could do.
[To CASTALIO and POLYDORE.
Cast. I'd serve my prince.
Acast. Who'd serve him?
Cast. I would, my lord.
Pol. And I; both would.
Acast. Away!
He needs not any servants such as you.
Serve him! he merits more than man can do:
He is so good, praise cannot speak his worth;
So merciful, sure he ne'er slept in wrath;
So just, that were he but a private man,
He could not do a wrong. How would you serve him?
Cast. I'd serve him with my fortune here at home,
And serve him with my person in his wars;
Watch for him, fight for him, bleed for him.
Pol. Die for him,
As every true-born loyal subject ought.
Acast. Let me embrace you both. Now, by the souls
Of my brave ancestors, I'm truly happy;
For this be ever blest my marriage-day,
Blest be your mother's memory that bore you,
And doubly blest be that auspicious hour
That gave ye birth! Yes, my aspiring boys,
Ye shall have business, when your master wants you:
You cannot serve a nobler: I have served him;
In this old body yet the marks remain
Of many wounds. I've with this tongue proclaimed
His right, even in the face of rank rebellion;
And when a foul-mouthed traitor once profaned
His sacred name, with my good sabre drawn,
Even at the head of all his giddy rout,
I rushed, and clove the rebel to the chine.

Enter Servant.

Ser. My lord, the expected guests are just arrived.
Acast. Go you, and give them welcome and reception.
[Exeunt CASTALIO, POLYDORE, SERINA, FLORELLA, and
Servant.
Cham. My lord, I stand in need of your assistance
In something that concerns my peace and honour.
Acast. Spoke like the son of that brave man I loved;
So freely, friendly we conversed together.
Whate'er it be, with confidence impart it;
Thou shalt command my fortune and my sword.
Cham. I dare not doubt your friendship nor your justice.
Your bounty shown to what I hold most dear,
My orphan sister, must not be forgotten.
Acast. Pr'ythee, no more of that: it grates my nature.
Cham. When our dear parents died, they died together,
One fate surprised them, and one grave received them:
My father with his dying breath bequeathed
Her to my love: my mother, as she lay
Languishing by him, called me to her side,
Took me in her fainting arms, wept, and embraced me;
Then pressed me close, and as she observed my tears,
Kissed them away: said she, "Chamont, my son,
By this, and all the love I ever showed thee,
Be careful of Monimia; watch her youth;
Let not her wants betray her to dishonour;
Perhaps kind Heaven may raise some friend": then sighed,
Kissed me again, so blessed us, and expired.
Pardon my grief.
Acast. It speaks an honest nature.
Cham. The friend Heaven raised was you; you took her up,
An infant, to the desert world exposed,
And proved another parent.
Acast. I've not wronged her!
Cham. Far be it from my fears.
Acast. Then why this argument?
Cham. My lord, my nature's jealous, and you'll bear it.
Acast. Go on.
Cham. Great spirits bear misfortunes hardly:
Good offices claim gratitude; and pride,
Where power is wanting, will usurp a little,
And make us, rather than be thought behind-hand,
Pay over-price.
Acast. I cannot guess your drift:
Distrust you me?
Cham. No, but I fear her weakness
May make her pay a debt at any rate;
And, to deal freely with your lordship's goodness,
I've heard a story lately much disturbs me.
Acast. Then first charge her; and if the offence be found
Within my reach, though it should touch my nature,
In my own offspring, by the dear remembrance
Of thy brave father, whom my heart rejoiced in,
I'd prosecute it with severest vengeance. [Exit.
Cham. I thank you from my soul.
Mon. Alas! my brother,
What have I done? and why do you abuse me?
My heart quakes in me; in your settled face
And clouded brow, methinks I see my fate:
You will not kill me!
Cham. Pr'ythee, why dost talk so?
Mon. Look kindly on me, then: I cannot bear
Severity; it daunts, and does amaze me:
My heart's so tender, should you charge me rough,
I should but weep, and answer you with sobbing.
But use me gently, like a loving brother,
And search through all the secrets of my soul.
Cham. Fear nothing, I will show myself a brother,
A tender, honest, and a loving brother.
You've not forgot our father?
Mon. I shall never.
Cham. Then you'll remember too, he was a man
That lived up to the standard of his honour,
And prized that jewel more than mines of wealth:
He'd not have done a shameful thing but once;
Though kept in darkness from the world, and hidden,
He could not have forgiven it to himself.
This was the only portion that he left us;
And I more glory in't than if possessed
Of all that ever fortune threw on fools.
'Twas a large trust, and must be managed nicely.
Now if, by any chance, Monimia,
You've soiled this gem, and taken from its value,
How will you account with me?
Mon. I challenge envy,
Malice, and all the practices of hell,
To censure all the actions of my past
Unhappy life, and taint me if they can!
Cham. I'll tell thee then: three nights ago, as I
Lay musing in my bed, all darkness round me,
A sudden damp struck to my heart, cold sweat
Dewed all my face, and trembling seized my limbs:
My bed shook under me, the curtains started,
And to my tortured fancy there appeared
The form of thee, thus beauteous as thou art;
Thy garments flowing loose, and in each hand
A wanton lover, which by turns caressed thee
With all the freedom of unbounded pleasure:
I snatched my sword, and in the very moment
Darted it at the phantom; straight it left me;
Then rose and called for lights; when, O dire omen!
I found my weapon had the arras pierced,
Just where that famous tale was interwoven,
How the unhappy Theban slew his father.
Mon. And for this cause my virtue is suspected!
Because in dreams your fancy has been ridden,
I must be tortured waking!
Cham. Have a care;
Labour not to be justified too fast:
Hear all, and then let Justice hold the scale.
What followed was the riddle that confounds me:
Through a close lane as I pursued my journey,
And meditated on the last night's vision,
I spied a wrinkled hag, with age grown double,
Picking dry sticks and mumbling to herself;
Her eyes with scalding rheum were galled and red;
Cold palsy shook her head, her hands seemed withered,
And on her crooked shoulders had she wrapped
The tattered remnant of an old striped hanging,
Which served to keep her carcass from the cold;
So there was nothing of a piece about her:
Her lower weeds were all o'er coarsely patched
With different-coloured rags, black, red, white, yellow,
And seemed to speak variety of wretchedness.
I asked her of my way, which she informed me;
Then craved my charity, and bade me hasten
To save a sister:—at that word I started.
Mon. The common cheat of beggars every day;
They flock about our doors, pretend to gifts
Of prophecy, and telling fools their fortunes.
Cham. Oh! but she told me such a tale, Monimia,
As in it bore great circumstance of truth:—
Castalio and Polydore, my sister—
Mon. Ha!
Cham. What, altered! does your courage fail you?
Now, by my father's soul, the witch was honest;
Answer me, if thou hast not lost to them
Thy honour at a sordid game?
Mon. I will,
I must; so hardly my misfortune loads me.
That both have offered me their loves, most true.
Cham. And 'tis as true too, they have both undone
Mon. Though they both with earnest vows
Have pressed my heart, if e'er in thought I yielded thee.
To any but Castalio—
Cham. But Castalio?
Mon. Still will you cross the line of my discourse?
Yes, I confess that he has won my soul
By generous love, and honourable vows:
Which he this day appointed to complete,
And make himself by holy marriage mine.
Cham. Art thou then spotless? hast thou still preserved
Thy virtue white, without a blot, untainted?
Mon. When I'm unchaste, may Heaven reject my prayers!
Or, more to make me wretched, may you know it!
Cham. Oh, then, Monimia, art thou dearer to me
Than all the comforts ever yet blessed man.
But let not marriage bait thee to thy ruin.
Trust not a man; we are by nature false,
Dissembling, subtle, cruel, and unconstant:
When a man talks of love, with caution trust him;
But if he swears, he'll certainly deceive thee.
I charge thee let no more Castalio soothe thee:
Avoid it as thou wouldst preserve the peace
Of a poor brother, to whose soul thou'rt precious.
Mon. I will.
Cham. Appear as cold, when next you meet, as great ones
When merit begs; then shalt thou see how soon
His heart will cool, and all his pains grow easy. [Exit.
Mon. Yes, I will try him, torture him severely;
For, O Castalio! thou too much hast wronged me,
In leaving me to Polydore's ill usage.
He comes; and now, for once, O Love, stand neuter,
Whilst a hard part's performed! for I must tempt,
Wound his soft nature, though my heart aches for it.
[Exit.

Re-enter CASTALIO.

Cast. Monimia, Monimia!—She's gone;
And seemed to part with anger in her eyes:
I am a fool; and she has found my weakness;
She uses me already like a slave
Fast bound in chains, to be chastised at will.
'Twas not well done to trifle with my brother:
I might have trusted him with all the secret,
Opened my silly heart, and shown it bare.
But then he loves her too; — but not like me.
I am a doting, honest slave, designed
For bondage, marriage-bonds, which I have sworn
To wear. It is the only thing I e'er
Hid from his knowledge; and he'll sure forgive
The first transgression of a wretched friend,
Betrayed to love, and all its little follies.

Re-enter POLYDORE and Page at the Door.

Pol. Here place yourself, and watch my brother throughly:
If he should chance to meet Monimia, make
Just observation of each word and action;
Pass not one circumstance without remark:
Sir, 'tis your office; do't, and bring me word. [Exit.

Re-enter MONIMIA.

Cast. Monimia, my angel! 'twas not kind
To leave me like a turtle here alone,
To droop and mourn the absence of my mate.
When thou art from me, every place is desert,
And I, methinks, am savage and forlorn:
Thy presence only 'tis can make me blest,
Heal my unquiet mind, and tune my soul.
Mon. Oh, the bewitching tongues of faithless men!
'Tis thus the false hyæna makes her moan,
To draw the pitying traveller to her den:
Your sex are so, such false dissemblers all;
With sighs and plaints ye entice poor women's hearts,
And all that pity you are made your prey.
Cast. What means my love? Oh, how have I deserved.
This language from the sovereign of my joys!
Stop, stop those tears, Monimia, for they fall
Like baneful dew from a distempered sky;
I feel them chill me to the very heart.
Mon. Oh, you are false, Castalio, most forsworn.
Attempt no farther to delude my faith;
My heart is fixed, and you shall shake't no more.
Cast. Who told you so? what hell-bred villain durst
Profane the sacred business of my love?
Mon. Your brother, knowing on what terms I'm here,
The unhappy object of your father's charity,
Licentiously discoursed to me of love,
And durst affront me with his brutal passion. Cast. 'Tis I have been
to
blame, and only I;
False to my brother, and unjust to thee.
For, oh! he loves thee too, and this day owned it;
Taxed me with mine, and claimed a right above me.
Mon. And was your love so very tame, to shrink,
Or, rather than lose him, abandon me?
Cast. I, knowing him precipitate and rash,
To calm his heat, and to conceal my happiness,
Seemed to comply with his unruly will;
Talked as he talked, and granted all he asked;
Lest he in rage might have our loves betrayed,
And I for ever had Monimia lost.
Mon. Could you then? did you? can you own it too?
'Twas poorly done, unworthy of yourself,
And I can never think you meant me fair.
Cast. Is this Monimia? surely no; till now
I ever thought her dove-like, soft, and kind.
Who trusts his heart with woman's surely lost:
You were made fair on purpose to undo us,
Whilst greedily we snatch the alluring bait,
And ne'er distrust the poison that it hides.
Mon. When love ill-placed would find a means to break—
Cast. It never wants pretences or excuse.
Mon. Man therefore was a lord-like creature made,
Rough as the winds, and as inconstant too;
A lofty aspect given him for command,
Easily softened, when he would betray.
Like conquering tyrants, you our breasts invade,
Where you are pleased to forage for a while;
But soon you find new conquests out, and leave
The ravaged province ruinate and waste.
If so, Castalio, you have served my heart,
I find that desolation's settled there,
And I shall ne'er recover peace again.
Cast. Who can hear this, and bear an equal mind!
Since you will drive me from you, I must go;
But O, Monimia, when thou'st banished me,
No creeping slave, though tractable and dull
As artful woman for her ends would choose,
Shall ever dote as I have done: for oh!
No tongue my pleasure nor my pain can tell;
'Tis Heaven to have thee, and without thee hell.
Mon. Castalio! stay! we must not part. I find
My rage ebbs out, and love flows in apace.
These little quarrels love must needs forgive;
They rouse up drowsy thoughts, and wake the soul.
Oh! charm me with the music of thy tongue;
I'm ne'er so blest as when I hear thy vows,
And listen to the language of thy heart.
Cast. Where am I? surely paradise is round me!
Sweets planted by the hand of Heaven grow here,
And every sense is full of thy perfection.
To hear thee speak might calm a madman's frenzy,
Till by attention he forgot his sorrows;
But to behold thy eyes, thy amazing beauties,
Might make him rage again with love, as I do.
To touch thee's Heaven; but to enjoy thee, oh!
Thou Nature's whole perfection in one piece!
Sure, framing thee Heaven took unusual care;
As its own beauty it designed thee fair;
And formed thee by the best-loved angel there.
[Exeunt.

ACT THE THIRD.

SCENE I.—The Garden before ACASTO'S House.

Enter POLYDORE and Page.

POL. Were they so kind? Express it to me all
In words, 'twill make me think I saw it too.
Page. At first I thought they had been mortal foes;
Monimia raged, Castalio grew disturbed;
Each thought the other wronged, yet both so haughty,
They scorned submission, though love all the while
The rebel played, and scarce could be contained.
Pol. But what succeeded?
Page. Oh, 'twas wondrous pretty!
For of a sudden all the storm was past,
A gentle calm of love succeeded it;
Monimia sighed and blushed, Castalio swore;
As you, my lord, I well remember, did
To my young sister in the orange grove,
When I was first preferred to be your page.
Pol. Happy Castalio! now by my great soul,
My ambitious soul, that languishes to glory,
I'll have her yet; by my best hopes, I will.
She shall be mine, in spite of all her arts.
But for Castalio why was I refused?
Has he supplanted me by some foul play?
Traduced my honour? death! he durst not do't.
It must be so: we parted, and he met her,
Half to compliance brought by me; surprised
Her sinking virtue, till she yielded quite.
So poachers basely pick up tired game,
Whilst the fair hunter's cheated of his prey.
Boy!
Page. My lord!
Pol. Go to your chamber, and prepare your lute;
Find out some song to please me, that describes
Women's hypocrisies, their subtle wiles,
Betraying smiles, feigned tears, inconstancies;
Their painted outsides and corrupted minds;
The sum of all their follies, and their falsehoods.
[Exit Page.

Enter Servant.

Serv. Oh, the unhappiest tidings tongue e'er told!
Pol. The matter?
Serv. Oh! your father, my good master,
As with his guests he sat in mirth raised high,
And chased the goblet round the joyful board,
A sudden trembling seized on all his limbs;
His eyes distorted grew; his visage pale;
His speech forsook him; life itself seemed fled;
And all his friends are waiting now about him.

Enter ACASTO leaning on two Attendants.

Acast. Support me, give me air; I'll yet recover:
'Twas but a slip decaying Nature made,
For she grows weary near her journey's end.
Where are my sons? Come near, my Polydore:
Your brother! where's Castalio?
Serv. My lord,
I've searched, as you commanded, all the house:
He and Monimia are not to be found.
Acast. Not to be found! then where are all my friends?
Tis well;—
I hope they'll pardon an unhappy fault
My unmannerly infirmity has made.
Death could not come in a more welcome hour,
For I'm prepared to meet him; and, methinks,
Would live and die with all my friends about me.

Enter CASTALIO.

Cast. Angels preserve my dearest father's life;
Bless it with long, uninterrupted days!
Oh! may he live till time itself decay;
Till good men wish himdead, or I offend him!
Acast. Thank you, Castalio; give me both your hands,
And bear me up; I'd walk. So, now, methinks,
I appear as great as Hercules himself,
Supported by the pillars he had raised.
Cast. My lord, your chaplain.
Acast. Let the good man enter.

Enter Chaplain.

Chap. Heaven guard your lordship, and restore your health!
Acast. I have provided for thee if I die.
No fawning! 'tis a scandal to thy office.
My sons, as thus, united, ever live;
And for the estate, you'll find, when I am dead,
I have divided it betwixt you both,
Equally parted, as you shared my love;
Only to sweet Monimia I've bequeathed
Ten thousand crowns; a little portion for her,
To wed her honourably as she's born.
Be not less friends because you're brothers; shun
The man that's singular,—his mind's unsound,
His spleen o'erweighs his brains; but, above all,
Avoid the politic, the factious fool,
The busy, buzzing, talking, hardened knave,
The quaint smooth rogue, that sins against his reason;
Calls saucy loud suspicion public zeal,
And mutiny the dictates of his spirit:
Be very careful how ye make new friends.
Men read not morals now; it was a custom:
But all are to their fathers' vices born,
And in their mothers' ignorance are bred.
Let marriage be the last mad thing ye do,
For all the sins and follies of the past.
If you have children, never give them knowledge;
'Twill spoil their fortune; fools are all the fashion.
If you've religion, keep it to yourselves;
Atheists will else make use of toleration,
And laugh you out on't: never show religion,
Except ye mean to pass for knaves of conscience,
And cheat believing fools that think ye honest.

Enter SERINA.

Ser. My father!
Acast. My heart's darling!
Ser. Let my knees
Fix to the earth; ne'er let my eyes have rest,
But wake and weep, till Heaven restore my father!
Acast. Rise to my arms, and thy kind prayers are answered,
For thou'rt a wondrous extract of all goodness,
Born for my joy, and no pain's felt when near thee.

Enter CHAMONT.

Chamont!
Cham. My lord, may't prove not an unlucky omen!
Many I see are waiting round about you,
And I am come to ask a blessing too.
Acast. Mayst thou be happy!
Cham. Where?
Acast. In all thy wishes.
Cham. Confirm me so, and make this fair one mine.
I am unpractised in the trade of courtship,
And know not how to deal love out with art:
Onsets in love seem best like those in war,
Fierce, resolute, and done with all the force;
So I would open my whole heart at once,
And pour out the abundance of my soul.
Acast. What says Serina? Canst thou love a soldier?
One born to honour, and to honour bred?
One that has learnt to treat even foes with kindness;
To wrong no good man's fame, nor praise himself?
Ser. Oh, name not love, for that's allied to joy;
And joy must be a stranger to my heart,
When you're in danger. May Chamont's good fortune
Render him lovely to some happier maid!
Whilst I at friendly distance see him blest,
Praise the kind gods, and wonder at his virtues.
Acast. Chamont, pursue her, conquer and possess her;
And, as my son, a third of all my fortune
Shall be thy lot.
But keep thy eyes from wandering, man of frailty:
Beware the dangerous beauty of the wanton;
Shun their enticements; ruin, like a vulture,
Waits on their conquests: falsehood too's their business;
They put false beauty off to all the world;
Use false endearments to the fools that love 'em;
And, when they marry, to their silly husbands
They bring false virtue, broken fame and fortune.
Ser. Hear ye that, my lord?
Cham. Yes, my fair monitor, old men always talk thus.
Acast. Chamont, you told me of some doubts that pressed you.
Are you yet satisfied that I'm your friend?
Cham. My lord, I would not lose that satisfaction
For any blessing I could wish for.
As to my fears, already I have lost them;
They ne'er shall vex me more, nor trouble you.
Acast. I thank you. Daughter, you must do so too.
My friends, 'tis late;
For my disorder, it seems all past and over,
And I methinks begin to feel new health.
Cast. Would you but rest, it might restore you quite.
Acast. Yes, I'll to bed; old men must humour weakness.
Let me have music then, to lull and chase
This melancholy thought of death away.
Good-night, my friends! Heaven guard ye all!
To-morrow early we'll salute the day, [Good-night!
Find out new pleasures, and redeem lost time.
[Exeunt all but CHAMONT and Chaplain.
Cham. Hist, hist, Sir Gravity, a word with you.
Chap. With me, sir?
Cham. If you're at leisure, sir, we'll waste an hour;
'Tis yet too soon to sleep, and 'twill be charity
To lend your conversation to a stranger.
Chap. Sir, you're a soldier?
Cham. Yes.
Chap. I love a soldier;
And had been one myself, but my parents would make me what you see me: yet I'm
honest, for all I wear black.
Cham. And that's a wonder.
Have you had long dependence on this family?
Chap. I have not thought it so, because my time's
Spent pleasantly. My lord's not haughty nor imperious,
Nor I gravely whimsical; he has good nature,
And I have manners:
His sons too are civil to me, because I do not pretend to be wiser than they
are; I meddle with no man's business but my own; I rise in a morning early,
study moderately, eat and drink cheerfully, live soberly, take my innocent
pleasures freely; so meet with respect, and am not the jest of the family.
Cham. I'm glad you are so happy.—
A pleasant fellow this, and may be useful. [Aside.
Knew you my father, the old Chamont?
Chap. I did, and was most sorry when we lost him.
Cham. Why? didst thou love him?
Chap. Everybody loved him; besides, he was my master's friend.
Cham. I could embrace thee for that very notion.
If thou didst love my father, I could think
Thou wouldst not be an enemy to me.
Chap. I can be no man's foe.
Cham. Then pr'ythee tell me,
Think'st thou the Lord Castalio loves my sister?
Nay, never start. Come, come, I know thy office
Opens thee all the secrets of the family.
Then, if thou'rt honest, use this freedom kindly.
Chap. Loves your sister!
Cham. Ay, loves her.
Chap. Sir, I never asked him; and wonder you should ask it me.
Cham. Nay, but thou'rt an hypocrite; is there not one
Of all thy tribe that's honest in your schools?
The pride of your superiors makes ye slaves:
Ye all live loathsome, sneaking, servile lives;
Not free enough to practise generous truth,
Though ye pretend to teach it to the world.
Chap. I would deserve a better thought from you.
Cham. If thou wouldst have me not contemn thy office
And character, think all thy brethren knaves,
Thy trade a cheat, and thou its worst professor,
Inform me; for I tell thee, priest, I'll know.
Chap. Either he loves her, or he much has wronged her.
Cham. How, wronged her! have a care; for this may lay
A scene of mischief to undo us all.
But tell me—wronged her, saidst thou?
Chap. Ay, sir, wronged her.
Cham. This is a secret worth a monarch's fortune:
What shall I give thee for't? thou dear physician
Of sickly souls, unfold this riddle to me,
And comfort mine—
Chap. I would hide nothing from you willingly.
Cham. Nay, then again thou'rt honest. Wouldst thou tell me?
Chap. Yes, if I durst.
Cham. Why, what affrights thee?
Chap. You do,
Who are not to be trusted with the secret.
Cham. Why, I am no fool.
Chap. So, indeed, you say
Cham. Pr'ythee, be serious then.
Chap. You see I am so,
And hardly shall be mad enough to-night
To trust you with my ruin.
Cham. Art thou then
So far concerned in't? What has been thy office?
Curse on that formal steady villain's face!
Just so do all bawds look; nay, bawds, they say,
Can pray upon occasion, talk of Heaven,
Turn up their goggling eye-balls, rail at vice,
Dissemble, lie, and preach like any priest.
Art thou a bawd?
Chap. Sir, I'm not often used thus.
Cham. Be just then.
Chap. So I shall be to the trust
That's laid upon me.
Cham. By the reverenced soul
Of that great honest man that gave me being,
Tell me but what thou know'st concerns my honour,
And if I e'er reveal it to thy wrong,
May this good sword ne'er do me right in battle!
May I ne'er know that blessed peace of mind,
That dwells in good and pious men, like thee!
Chap. I see your temper's moved, and I will trust you.
Cham. Wilt thou?
Chap. I will; but if it ever 'scape you—
Cham. It never shall.
Chap. Swear then.
Cham. I do, by all
That's dear to me, by the honour of my name,
And by that Power I serve, it never shall.
Chap. Then this good day, when all the house was busy,
When mirth and kind rejoicing filled each room,
As I was walking in the grove I met them.
Cham. What, met them in the grove together? tell me.
How? walking, standing, sitting, lying? ha!
Chap. I, by their own appointment, met them there;
Received their marriage-vows, and joined their hands.
Cham. How! married!
Chap. Yes, sir.
Cham. Then my soul's at peace:
But why would you delay so long to give it?
Chap. Not knowing what reception it may find
With old Acasto; may be I was too cautious
To trust the secret from me.
Cham. What's the cause
I cannot guess: though 'tis my sister's honour,
I do not like this marriage,
Huddled i' the dark, and done at too much venture:
The business looks with an unlucky face.
Keep still the secret; for it ne'er shall 'scape me,
Not even to them, the new-matched pair. Farewell.
Believe my truth, and know me for thy friend.
[Exeunt.

Re-enter CASTALIO and MONIMIA.

Cast. Young Chamont, and the chaplain! sure 'tis they!
No matter what's contrived, or who consulted,
Since my Monimia's mine; though this sad look
Seems no good-boding omen to her bliss;
Else, pr'ythee, tell me why that look cast down?
Why that sad sigh, as if thy heart were breaking?
Mon. Castalio, I am thinking what we've done.
The heavenly powers were sure displeased to-day;
For at the ceremony as we stood,
And as your hand was kindly joined with mine,
As the good priest pronounced the sacred words,
Passion grew big, and I could not forbear;
Tears drowned my eyes, and trembling seized my soul.
What should that mean?
Cast. Oh, thou art tender all;
Gentle and kind as sympathising nature!
When a sad story has been told, I've seen
Thy little breasts, with soft compassion swelled,
Shove up and down, and heave like dying birds:
But now let fear be banished, think no more
Of danger, for there's safety in my arms;
Let them receive thee: Heaven, grow jealous now!
Sure she's too good for any mortal creature;
I could grow wild, and praise thee even to madness.
But wherefore do I dally with my bliss?
The night's far spent, and day draws on apace;
To bed, my love, and wake till I come thither.

Re-enter POLYDORE, behind.

Pol. So hot, my brother? [Aside.
Mon. 'Twill be impossible:
You know your father's chamber's next to mine,
And the least noise will certainly alarm him.
Cast. Impossible! impossible! alas!
Is't possible to live one hour without thee?
Let me behold those eyes, they'll tell me truth.
Hast thou no longing? Art thou still the same
Cold, icy virgin? No; thou'rt altered quite.
Haste, haste to bed, and let loose all thy wishes.
Mon. 'Tis but one night, my lord; I pray be ruled.
Cast. Try if thou'st power to stop a flowing tide,
Or in a tempest make the seas be calm;
And, when that's done, I'll conquer my desires.
No more, my blessing. What shall be the sign?
When shall I come? for to my joys I'll steal,
As if I ne'er had paid my freedom for them.
Mon. Just three soft strokes upon the chamber-door;
And at that signal you shall gain admittance:
But speak not the least word; for if you should,
'Tis surely heard, and all will be betrayed.
Cast. Oh! doubt it not, Monimia; our joys
Shall be as silent as the ecstatic bliss
Of souls that by intelligence converse:
Immortal pleasures shall our senses drown;
Thought shall be lost, and every power dissolved:
Away, my love! first take this kiss. Now haste.
I long for that to come, yet grudge each minute past.
[Exit MONIMIA.
My brother wandering too so late this way!
Pol. [Coming forward]. Castalio!
Cast. My Polydore, how dost thou?
How does our father; is he well recovered?
Pol. I left him happily reposed to rest;
He's still as gay as if his life were young.
But how does fair Monimia?
Cast. Doubtless well.
A cruel beauty with her conquests pleased
Is always joyful, and her mind in health.
Pol. Is she the same Monimia still she was?
May we not hope she's made of mortal mould?
Cast. She's not woman else:
Though I'm grown weary of this tedious hoping;
We've in a barren desert strayed too long.
Pol. Yet may relief be unexpected found,
And love's sweet manna cover all the field.
Met ye to-day?
Cast. No; she has still avoided me.
Her brother too is jealous of her grown,
And has been hinting something to my father.
I wish I'd never meddled with the matter;
And would enjoin thee, Polydore—
Pol. To what?
Cast. To leave this peevish beauty to herself.
Pol. What, quit my love? as soon I'd quit my post
In fight, and like a coward run away.
No, by my stars! I'll chase her till she yields
To me, or meets her rescue in another.
Cast. Nay, she has beauty that might shake the leagues
Of mighty kings, and set the world at odds;
But I have wondrous reasons on my side
That would persuade thee, were they known.
Pol. Then speak them.
What are they? came ye to her window here
To learn them now? Castalio, have a care;
Use honest dealing with your friend and brother.
Believe me, I'm not with my love so blinded,
But can discern your purpose to abuse me.
Quit your pretences to her.
Cast. Grant I do;
You love capitulation, Polydore,
And but upon conditions would oblige me.
Pol. You say, you've reasons; why are they concealed?
Cast. To-morrow I may tell you:
It is a matter of such circumstance,
As I must well consult ere I reveal.
But, pr'ythee, cease to think I would abuse thee,
Till more be known.
Pol. When you, Castalio, cease
To meet Monimia unknown to me,
And then deny it slavishly, I'll cease
To think Castalio faithless to his friend.
Did I not see you part this very moment?
Cast. It seems you've watched me then?
Pol. I scorn the office.
Cast. Pr'ythee avoid a thing thou mayst repent.
Pol. That is, henceforward making leagues with you.
Cast. Nay, if you're angry, Polydore, good night.
[Exit.
Pol. Good-night, Castalio, if you're in such haste.
He little thinks I've overheard the appointment,
But to his chamber's gone to wait awhile,
Then come and take possession of my love.
This is the utmost point of all my hopes;
Or now she must or never can be mine.
Oh, for a means now how to counterplot,
And disappoint this happy elder brother!
In every thing we do or undertake,
He soars above me, mount what height I can,
And keeps the start he got of me in birth.
Cordelio!

Re-enter Page.

Page. My lord.
Pol. Come hither, boy.
Thou hast a pretty, forward, lying face,
And mayst in time expect preferment; canst thou
Pretend to secrecy, cajole and flatter
Thy master's follies, and assist his pleasures?
Page. My lord, I could do anything for you,
And ever be a very faithful boy.
Command, whate'er's your pleasure I'll observe,
Be it to run, or watch, or to convey
A letter to a beauteous lady's bosom:
At least I am not dull, and soon should learn.
Pol. 'Tis pity then thou shouldst not be employed.
Go to my brother; he's in's chamber now
Undressing, and preparing for his rest;
Find out some means to keep him up awhile
Tell him a pretty story that may please
His ear; invent a tale, no matter what;
If he should ask of me, tell him I'm gone
To bed, and sentyou there to know his pleasure,
Whether he'll hunt to-morrow.—Well said, Polydore;
Dissemble with thy brother.—That's one point;
But do not leave him till he's in his bed:
Or if he chance to walk again this way,
Follow and do not quit him, but seem fond
To do him little offices of service.
Perhaps at last it may offend him; then
Retire, and wait till I come in. Away:
Succeed in this, and be employed again.
Page. Doubt not, my lord: he has been always kind
To me; would often set me on his knees;
Then give me sweetmeats, call me pretty boy,
And ask me what the maids talked of at nights.
Pol. Run quickly then, and prosperous be thy wishes! [Exit Page.
Here I'm alone, and fit for mischief; now
To cheat this brother, will't be honest that?
I heard the sign she ordered him to give.
O for the art of Proteus, but to change
The happy Polydore to blest Castalio!
She's not so well acquainted with him yet,
But I may fit her arms as well as he.
Then when I'm happily possessed of more
Than sense can think, all loosened into joy,
To hear my disappointed brother come,
And give the unregarded signal—oh,
What a malicious pleasure will that be!
"Just three soft strokes against the chamber-door:
But speak not the least word; for if you should,
'Tis surely heard, and we are both betrayed."
How I adore a mistress that contrives
With care to lay the business of her joys!
One that has wit to charm the very soul,
And give a double relish to delight!
Blest Heaven, assist me but in this dear hour,
And my kind stars be but propitious now,
Dispose of me hereafter as you please!
Monimia! Monimia! [Gives the sign.
Flor. [At the window.] Who's there?
Pol. 'Tis I.
Flor. My Lord Castalio?
Pol. The same.
How does my love, my dear Monimia?
Flor. Oh!
She wonders much at your unkind delay;
You've stayed so long, that at each little noise
The wind but makes, she asks if you are coming.
Pol. Tell her I'm here, and let the door be opened.
[FLORELLA retires.
Now boast, Castalio; triumph now, and tell
Thyself strange stories of a promised bliss!
[The door is unbolted.
It opens: ha! what means my trembling flesh?
Limbs, do your office and support me well;
Bear me to her, then fail me if you can. [Exit.

Re-enter CASTALIO and Page.

Page. Indeed, my lord, 'twill be a lovely morning;
Pray let us hunt.
Cast. Go, you're an idle prattler.
I'll stay at home to-morrow: if your lord
Thinks fit, he may command my hounds. Go, leave me;
I must to bed.
Page. I'll wait upon your lordship,
If you think fit, and sing you to repose.
Cast. No, my kind boy, the night is too far wasted;
My senses too are quite disrobed of thought,
And ready all with me to go to rest.
Good-night: commend me to my brother.
Page. Oh! you never heard the last new song I learnt; it is the
finest,
prettiest song indeed, of my lord and my lady you know who, that were caught
together, you know where. My lord, indeed, it is.
Cast. You must be whipped, youngster, if you get such songs as those
are. What means this boy's impertinence to-night?
Page. Why, what must I sing, pray, my dear lord?
Cast. Psalms, child, psalms.
Page. Oh dear me! boys that go to school learn psalms; but
pages, that
are better bred, sing lampoons.
Cast. Well, leave me; I'm weary.
Page. Oh! but you promised me, last time I told you what
colour my Lady
Monimia's stockings were of, and that she gartered them above the knee, that yo
u
would give me a little horse to go a-hunting upon; so you did. I'll tell you
no
more stories, except you keep your word with me.
Cast. Well, go, you trifler, and to-morrow ask me.
Page. Indeed, my lord, I can't abide to leave you.
Cast. Why, wert thou instructed to attend me?
Page. No, no, indeed, indeed, my lord, I was not; But I know what I
know.
Cast. What dost thou know? Death! what can all this mean?
Page. Oh! I know who loves somebody.
Cast. What's that to me, boy?
Page. Nay, I know who loves you too.
Cast. That is a wonder; pr'ythee tell it me.
Page. That—'tis—I know who—but will you give me the
horse then?
Cast. I will, my child.
Page. It is my Lady Monimia, look you; but don't you tell her I told
you: she'll give me no more playthings then. I heard her say so as she lay a-
bed, man.
Cast. Talked she of me when in her bed, Cordelio?
Page. Yes, and I sung her the song you made too; and she did so sigh,
and so look with her eyes, and her breasts did so lift up and down; I could
have
found in my heart to have beat them, for they made me ashamed.
Cast. Hark, what's that noise? Take this, begone, and leave me.
You knave, you little flatterer, get you gone.
[Exit Page.
Surely it was a noise. Hist!—only fancy;
For all is hushed, as Nature were retired,
And the perpetual motion standing still,
So much she from her work appears to cease,
And every warring element's at peace;
All the wild herds are in their coverts couched;
The fishes to their banks or ooze repaired,
And to the murmurs of the waters sleep;
The feeling air's at rest, and feels no noise,
Except of some soft breaths among the trees,
Rocking the harmless birds that rest upon them.
'Tis now that, guided by my love, I go
To take possession of Monimia's arms.
Sure Polydore's by this time gone to bed.
At midnight thus the usurer steals untracked,
To make a visit to his hoarded gold,
And feast his eyes upon the shining mammon.
[Knocks.
She hears me not; sure she already sleeps;
Her wishes could not brook my long delay,
And her poor heart has beat itself to rest.
[Knocks again.
Monimia! my angel—ha!—not yet—
How long's the shortest moment of delay
To a heart impatient of its pangs, like mine,
In sight of ease, and panting to the goal!
Once more— [Knocks again.
Flor. [At the window.] Who's there,
That comes thus rudely to disturb our rest?
Cast. 'Tis I.
Flor. Who are you? what's your name?
Cast. Suppose
The Lord Castalio.
Flor. I know you not.
The Lord Castalio has no business here.
Cast. Ha! have a care; what can this mean? whoe'er
Thou art, I charge thee to Monimia fly;
Tell her I'm here, and wait upon my doom.
Flor. Whoe'er ye are, ye may repent this outrage;
My lady must not be disturbed. Good-night.
Cast. She must, tell her she shall; go, I'm in haste,
And bring her tidings from the State of Love;
They're all in consultation met together,
How to reward my truth, and crown her vows.
Flor. Sure the man's mad!
Cast. Or this will make me so.
Obey me, or, by all the wrongs I suffer,
I'll scale the window, and come in by force,
Let the sad consequence be what it will.—
This creature's trifling folly makes me mad.
Flor. My lady's answer is, you may depart;
She says she knows you: you are Polydore,
Sent by Castalio, as you were to-day,
To affront and do her violence again.
Cast. I'll not believe't.
Flor. You may, sir.
Cast. Curses blast thee!
Flor. Well, 'tis a fine cool evening; and I hope
May cure the raging fever in your blood.
Good-night. [Retires.
Cast. And farewell all that's just in woman!
This is contrived, a studied trick to abuse
My easy nature, and torment my mind;
Sure now she has bound me fast, and means to lord it,
To rein me hard, and ride me at her will,
Till by degrees she shape me into fool
For all her future uses. Death and torment!
'Tis impudence to think my soul will bear it.
Oh, I could grow even wild, and tear my hair
'Tis well, Monimia, that thy empire's short
Let but to-morrow, but to-morrow come,
And try if all thy arts appease my wrong;
Till when, be this detested place my bed, [Lies down.
Where I will ruminate on woman's ills,
Laugh at myself, and curse the inconstant sex.
Faithless Monimia! O Monimia!

EnterERNESTO.

Ern. Either
My sense has been deluded, or this way
I heard the sound of sorrow; 'tis late night,
And none whose mind's at peace would wander now.
Cast. Who's there?
Ern. A friend.
Cast. If thou art so, retire,
And leave this place; for I would be alone.
Ern. Castalio! My lord, why in this posture,
Stretched on the ground? Your honest, true, old servant,
Your poor Ernesto, cannot see you thus;
Rise, I beseech you.
Cast. If thou art Ernesto,
As by thy honesty thou seem'st to be,
Once leave me to my folly.
Ern. I can't leave you,
And not the reason know of your disorders.
Remember how, when young, I in my arms
Have often borne you, pleased you in your pleasures,
And sought an early share in your affection.
Do not discard me now, but let me serve you.
Cast. Thou canst not serve me.
Ern. Why?
Cast. Because my thoughts
Are full of woman; thou, poor wretch, art past them.
Ern. I hate the sex.
Cast. Then I'm thy friend, Ernesto. [Rises.
I'd leave the world for him that hates a woman.
Woman, the fountain of all human frailty!
What mighty ills have not been done by woman!
Who was't betrayed the Capitol? A woman.
Who lost Mark Antony the world? A woman.
Who was the cause of a long ten years' war,
And laid at last old Troy in ashes? Woman,
Destructive, damnable, deceitful woman!
Woman to man first as a blessing given,
When innocence and love were in their prime!
Happy awhile in Paradise they lay,
But quickly woman longed to go astray;
Some foolish new adventure needs must prove,
And the first devil she saw, she changed her love;
To his temptations lewdly she inclined
Her soul, and for an apple damned mankind. [Exeunt.

ACT THE FOURTH.

SCENE I.—A Room in ACASTO'S House.

Enter ACASTO.

ACAST. Blest be the morning that has brought me health;
A happy rest has softened pain away,
And I'll forget it, though my mind's not well:
A heavy melancholy clogs my heart;
I droop and sigh, I know not why. Dark dreams,
Sick fancy's children, have been over-busy,
And all the night played farces in my brains.
Methought I heard the midnight raven cry;
Waked with the imagined noise, my curtains seemed
To start, and at my feet my sons appeared,
Like ghosts, all pale and stiff: I strove to speak,
But could not; suddenly the forms were lost,
And seemed to vanish in a bloody cloud.
'Twas odd, and for the present shook my thoughts;
But was the effect of my distempered blood;
And, when the health's disturbed, the mind's unruly.

Enter POLYDORE.

Good-morning, Polydore.
Pol. Heaven keep your lordship!
Acast. Have you yet seen Castalio to-day?
Pol. My lord, 'tis early day; he's hardly risen.
Acast. Go, call him up, and meet me in the chapel.
[Exit POLYDORE.
cannot think all has gone well to-night;
For as I waking lay (and sure my sense
Was then my own) methought I heard my son
Castalio's voice; but it seemed low and mournful;
Under my window too I thought I heard it:
My untoward fancy could not be deceived
In everything; and I will search the truth out.

Enter MONIMIA and FLORELLA.

Already up, Monimia! you rose
Thus early surely to outshine the day!
Or was there anything that crossed your rest?
They were naughty thoughts that would not let you sleep.
Mon. Whatever are my thoughts, my lord, I've learnt
By your example to correct their ills,
And morn and evening give up the account.
Acast. Your pardon, sweet one; I upbraid you not;
Or, if I would, you are so good I could not;
Though I'm deceived, or you're more fair to-day;
For beauty's heightened in your cheeks, and all
Your charms seem up and ready in your eyes.
Mon. The little share I have's so very mean
That it may easily admit addition;
Though you, my lord, should most of all beware
To give it too much praise, and make me proud.
Acast. Proud of an old man's praises! No, Monimia!
But if my prayers can do you any good,
Thou shalt not want the largest share of them.
Heard you no noise to-night?
Mon. Noise, my good lord!
Acast. Ay, about midnight?
Mon. Indeed, my lord, I don't remember any.
Acast. You must, sure! Went you early to your rest?
Mon. About the wonted hour.—Why this inquiry?
[Aside.
Acast. And went your maid to bed too?
Mon. My lord, I guess so:
I've seldom known her disobey my orders.
Acast. Sure goblins then, or fairies, haunt the dwelling!
I'll have inquiry made through all the house,
But I'll find out the cause of these disorders.
Good-day to thee, Monimia. I'll to chapel. [Exit.
Mon. I'll but dispatch some orders to my woman,
And wait upon your lordship there.
I fear the priest has played us false; if so,
My poor Castalio loses all for me.
I wonder, though, he made such haste to leave me;
Was't not unkind, Florella? surely 'twas!
He scarce afforded one kind parting word,
But went away so cold!—the kiss he gave me
Seemed the forced compliment of sated love.
Would I had never married!
Flor. Why?
Mon. Methinks
The scene's quite altered; I am not the same;
I've bound up for myself a weight of cares,
And how the burden will be borne, none knows.
A husband may be jealous, rigid, false;
And, should Castalio e'er prove so to me,
So tender is my heart, so nice my love,
'Twould ruin and distract my rest for ever.
Flor. Madam, he's coming.
Mon. Where, Florella? where?
Is he returning? To my chamber lead;
I'll meet him there: the mysteries of our love
Should be kept private as religious rites
From the unhallowed view of common eyes.
[Exeunt.

SCENE II.—Another Room in ACASTO'S House.

Enter CASTALIO.

Cast. Wished morning's come! And now, upon the plains
And distant mountains, where they feed their flocks,
The happy shepherds leave their homely huts,
And with their pipes proclaim the new-born day.
The lusty swain comes with his well-filled scrip
Of healthful viands, which, when hunger calls,
With much content and appetite, he eats,
To follow in the fields his daily toil,
And dress the grateful glebe, that yields him fruits.
The beasts, that under the warm hedges slept,
And weathered out the cold bleak night, are up,
And, looking towards the neighbouring pastures, raise
The voice, and bid their fellow-brutes good-morrow
The cheerful birds too, on the tops of trees,
Assemble all in quires, and with their notes
Salute and welcome up the rising sun.
There's no condition sure so cursed as mine;
I'm married! 'Sdeath! I'm sped. How like a dog
Looked Hercules, thus to a distaff chained!
Monimia! O Monimia!

Enter MONIMIA and FLORELLA.

Mon. I come,
I fly to my adored Castalio's arms,
My wishes' lord. May every morn begin
Like this; and with our days our loves renew!
Now I may hope you're satisfied—
[Looking languishingly on him.
Cast. I am
Well satisfied—that thou art—Oh!—
Mon. What? speak.
Art thou not well, Castalio? Come, lean
Upon my breasts, and tell me where's thy pain.
Cast. 'Tis here; 'tis in my head; 'tis in my heart;
Tis everywhere; it rages like a madness;
And I most wonder how my reason holds!
Nay, wonder not, Monimia: the slave
You thought you had secured within my breast
Is grown a rebel, and has broke his chain,
And now he walks there like a lord at large.
Mon. Am I not then your wife, your loved Monimia?
I once was so, or I've most strangely dreamt.
What ails my love?
Cast. Whate'er thy dreams have been,
Thy waking thoughts ne'er meant Castalio well,
No more, Monimia, of your sex's arts,
They're useless all: I'm not that pliant tool,
That necessary utensil you'd make me:
I know my charter better—I am man,
Obstinate man, and will not be enslaved.
Mon. You shall not fear't: indeed my nature's easy;
I'll ever live your most obedient wife,
Nor ever any privilege pretend
Beyond your will; for that shall be my law;—
Indeed I will not.
Cast. Nay, you shall not, madam;
By yon bright Heaven, you shall not! All the day
I'll play the tyrant, and at night forsake thee;
Till by afflictions, and continued cares,
I've worn thee to a homely household drudge:
Nay, if I've any too, thou shalt be made
Subservient to all my looser pleasures;
For thou hast wronged Castalio.
Mon. No more:
Oh, kill me here, or tell me my offence;
I'll never quit you else, but on these knees
Thus follow you all day, till they're worn bare,
And hang upon you like a drowning creature.
Castalio!
Cast. Away! Last night, last night!
Mon. It was our wedding-night.
Cast. No more! forget it.
Mon. Why? do you then repent?
Cast. I do.
Mon. O Heaven!
And will you leave me thus? Help, help, Florella!
[He drags her to the door, breaks from her, and exit.
Help me to hold this yet loved cruel man.
Oh, my heart breaks—I'm dying! Oh—stand off!
I'll not indulge this woman's weakness; still,
Chafed and fomented, let my heart swell on,
Till with its injuries it burst, and shake,
With the dire blow, this prison to the earth.
Flor. What sad mistake has been the cause of this?
Mon. Castalio! Oh, how often has he swore
Nature should change, the sun and stars grow dark,
Ere he would falsify his vows to me!
Make haste, confusion, then! sun, lose thy light,
And stars, drop dead with sorrow to the earth!
For my Castalio's false.
Flor. Unhappy day!
Mon. False as the wind, the water, or the weather;
Cruel as tigers o'er their trembling prey:
I feel him in my breast, he tears my heart,
And at each sigh he drinks the gushing blood.
Must I be long in pain?

Enter CHAMONT.

Cham. In tears, Monimia?
Mon. Whoe'er thou art,
Leave me alone to my beloved despair.
Cham. Lift up thy eyes, and see who comes to cheer thee.
Tell me the story of thy wrongs, and then
See if my soul has rest till thou hast justice.
Mon. My brother!
Cham. Yes, Monimia, if thou think'st
That I deserve the name, I am thy brother.
Mon. O Castalio!
Cham. Ha!
Name me that name again! My soul's on fire
Till I know all: there's meaning in that name.
I know he is thy husband; therefore trust me
With all the following truth—
Mon. Indeed, Chamont,
There's nothing in it but the fault of nature:
I'm often thus seized suddenly with grief,
I know not why.
Cham. You use me ill, Monimia;
And I might think, with justice, most severely
Of this unfaithful dealing with your brother.
Mon. Truly I'm not to blame: suppose I'm fond,
And grieve for what as much may please another?
Should I upbraid the dearest friend on earth
For the first fault? you would not do so, would you?
Cham. Not if I'd cause to think it was a friend.
Mon. Why do you then call this unfaithful dealing?
I ne'er concealed my soul from you before:
Bear with me now, and search my wounds no farther;
For every probing pains me to the heart.
Cham. 'Tis sign there's danger in't must be prevented.
Where's your new husband? still that thought disturbs you.
What! only answer me with tears? Castalio!
Nay, now they stream;—
Cruel, unkind Castalio! is't not so?
Mon. I cannot speak, grief flows so fast upon me;
It chokes, and will not let me tell the cause.
Oh!
Cham. My Monimia, to my soul thou'rt dear,
As honour to my name; dear as the light
To eyes but just restored, and healed of blindness.
Why wilt thou not repose within my breast
The anguish that torments thee?
Mon. Oh! I dare not.
Cham. I have no friend but thee; we must confide
In one another. Two unhappy orphans,
Alas, we are; and, when I see thee grieve,
Methinks it is a part of me that suffers.
Mon. Oh, shouldst thou know the cause of my lamenting,
I'm satisfied, Chamont, that thou wouldst scorn me;
Thou wouldst despise the abject, lost Monimia;
No more wouldst praise this hated beauty; but
When in some cell, distracted, as I shall be,
Thou seest me lie, these unregarded locks
Matted like furies' tresses; my poor limbs
Chained to the ground; and, 'stead of the delights
Which happy lovers taste, my keeper's stripes,
A bed of straw, and a coarse wooden dish
Of wretched sustenance;—when thus thou seest me,
Pr'ythee have charity and pity for me:
Let me enjoy this thought!
Cham. Why wilt thou rack
My soul so long, Monimia? Ease me quickly;
Or thou wilt run me into madness first.
Mon. Could you be secret?
Cham. Secret as the grave.
Mon. But when I've told you, will you keep your fury
Within its bounds? will you not do some rash
And horrid mischief? for, indeed, Chamont,
You would not think how hardly I've been used
From a near friend; from one that has my soul
A slave, and therefore treats it like a tyrant.
Cham. I will be calm. But has Castalio wronged thee?
Has he already wasted all his love?
What has he done? quickly; for I'm all trembling
With expectation of a horrid tale.
Mon. Oh! could you think it?
Cham. What?
Mon. I fear he'll kill me.
Cham. Ha!
Mon. Indeed I do; he's strangely cruel to me;
Which, if it lasts, I'm sure must break my heart.
Cham. What has he done?
Mon. Most barbarously used me:
Nothing so kind as he, when in my arms,
In thousand kisses, tender sighs and joys,
Not to be thought again, the night was wasted.
At dawn of day, he rose, and left his conquest;
But when we met, and I with open arms
Ran to embrace the lord of all my wishes,
Oh, then—
Cham. Go on!
Mon. He threw me from his breast,
Like a detested sin.
Cham. How!
Mon. As I hung too
Upon his knees, and begged to know the cause,
He dragged me like a slave upon the earth,
And had no pity on my cries.
Cham. How! did he
Dash thee disdainfully away with scorn?
Mon. He did; and more, I fear will ne'er be friends,
Though I still love him with unbated passion.
Cham. What, throw thee from him!
Mon. Yes, indeed, he did.
Cham. So may this arm
Throw him to the earth, like a dead dog despised!
Lameness and leprosy, blindness and lunacy,
Poverty, shame, pride, and the name of villain,
Light on me, if, Castalio, I forgive thee!
Mon. Nay, now, Chamont, art thou unkind as he is:
Didst thou not promise me thou wouldst be calm?
Keep my disgrace concealed; why shouldst thou kill him?
By all my love, this arm should do him vengeance.
Alas! I love him still; and though I ne'er
Clasp him again within these longing arms,
Yet bless him, bless him, gods, where'er he goes!

Enter ACASTO.

Acast. Sure some ill fate is towards me; in my house
I only meet with oddness and disorder:
Each vassal has a wild distracted face,
And looks as full of business as a blockhead
In times of danger: just this very moment
I met Castalio—
Cham. Then you met a villain.
Acast. Ha!
Cham. Yes, a villain.
Acast. Have a care, young soldier,
How thou'rt too busy with Acasto's fame;
I have a sword, my arm's good old acquaintance.
Villain to thee!
Cham. Curse on thy scandalous age,
Which hinders me to rush upon thy throat,
And tear the root up of that cursed bramble!
Acast. Ungrateful ruffian! sure my good old friend
Was ne'er thy father; nothing of him's in thee:
What have I done in my unhappy age,
To be thus used? I scorn to upbraid thee, boy;
But I could put thee in remembrance—
Cham. Do.
Acast. I scorn it!
Cham. No, I'll calmly hear the story;
For I would fain know all, to see which scale
Weighs most—Ha! is not that good old Acasto?
What have I done?—can you forgive this folly?
Acast. Why dost thou ask it?
Cham. 'Twas the rude o'erflowing
Of too much passion; pray, my lord, forgive me. [Kneels.
Acast. Mock me not, youth; I can revenge a wrong.
Cham. I know it well; but for this thought of mine,
Pity a madman's frenzy, and forget it.
Acast. I will; but henceforth, pr'ythee, be more kind. [Raises him.
Whence came the cause?
Cham. Indeed I've been to blame:
But I'll learn better; for you've been my father:
You've been her father too—
[Takes MONIMIA by the hand.
Acast. Forbear the prologue,
And let me know the substance of thy tale.
Cham. You took her up a little tender flower,
Just sprouted on a bank, which the next frost
Had nipped; and, with a careful loving hand,
Transplanted her into your own fair garden,
Where the sun always shines; there long she flourished,
Grew sweet to sense, and lovely to the eye;
Till, at the last, a cruel spoiler came,
Cropped this fair rose, and rifled all its sweetness,
Then cast it, like a loathsome weed, away.
Acast. You talk to me in parables, Chamont.
You may have known that I'm no wordy man:
Fine speeches are the instruments of knaves,
Or fools, that use them when they want good sense;
But honesty
Needs no disguise nor ornament. Be plain.
Cham. Your son—
Acast. I've two; and both, I hope, have honour.
Cham. I hope so too—but—
Acast. Speak.
Cham. I must inform you,
Once more, Castalio—
Acast. Still Castalio!
Cham. Yes.
Your son Castalio has wronged Monima.
Acast. Ha! wronged her?
Cham. Married her.
Acast. I'm sorry for't.
Cham. Why sorry? By yon blest Heaven! there's not a lord
But might be proud to take her to his heart.
Acast. I'll not deny't.
Cham. You dare not; by the gods!
You dare not; all your family, combined
In one damned falsehood to out-do Castalio,
Dare not deny't.
Acast. How has Castalio wronged her?
Cham. Ask that of him: I say, my sister's wronged;
Monimia, my sister, born as high
And noble as Castalio. Do her justice,
Or, by the gods! I'll lay a scene of blood
Shall make this dwelling horrible to nature.
I'll do't. Hark you, my lord; your son Castalio,
Take him to your closet, and there teach him manners.
Acast. You shall have justice.
Cham. Nay, I will have justice.
Who'll sleep in safety that has done me wrong?
My lord, I'll not disturb you to repeat
The cause of this: I beg you (to preserve
Your house's honour) ask it of Castalio.
Acast. I will.
Cham. Till then, farewell! [Exit.
Acast. Farewell, proud boy!
Monimia!
Mon. My lord.
Acast. You are my daughter.
Mon. I am, my lord, if you'll vouchsafe to own me.
Acast. When you'll complain to me, I'll prove a father. [Exit.
Mon. Now I'm undone for ever: who on earth
Is there so wretched as Monimia?
First by Castalio cruelly forsaken;
I've lost Acasto now: his parting frowns
May well instruct me rage is in his heart:
I shall be next abandoned to my fortune,
Thrust out a naked wanderer to the world,
And branded for the mischievous Monimia!
What will become of me? My cruel brother
Is framing mischiefs too, for aught I know,
That may produce bloodshed, and horrid murder;
I would not be the cause of one man's death,
To reign the empress of the earth; nay, more,
I'd rather lose for ever my Castalio,
My dear unkind Castalio!

Enter POLYDORE.

Pol. Monimia weeping!
So morning dews on new-blown roses lodge,
By the sun's amorous heat to be exhaled.
I come, my love, to kiss all sorrow from thee.
What mean these sighs? and why thus beats thy heart?
Mon. Let me alone to sorrow: 'tis a cause
None e'er shall know; but it shall with me die.
Pol. Happy, Monimia, he to whom these sighs,
These tears, and all these languishings are paid!
I am no stranger to your dearest secret;
I know your heart was never meant for me:
That jewel's for an elder brother's price.
Mon. My lord!
Pol. Nay, wonder not; last night I heard
His oaths, your vows, and to my torment saw
Your wild embraces; heard the appointment made:
I did, Monimia, and I cursed the sound.
Wilt thou be sworn my love? wilt thou be ne'er
Unkind again?
Mon. Banish such fruitless hopes:
Have you sworn constancy to my undoing?
Will you be ne'er my friend again?
Pol. What means
My love?
Mon. Away! What meant my lord, last night?
Pol. Is that a question now to be demanded?
I hope Monimia was not much displeased.
Mon. Was it well done to treat me like a prostitute?
To assault my lodging at the dead of night,
And threaten me if I denied admittance?—
You said you were Castalio—
Pol. By those eyes!
It was the same; I spent my time much better;
I tell thee, ill-natured fair one, I was posted
To more advantage,—on a pleasant hill
Of springing joy, and everlasting sweetness.
Mon. Ha!—have a care—
Pol. Where is the danger near me?
Mon. I fear you're on a rock will wreck your quiet,
And drown your soul in wretchedness for ever;
A thousand horrid thoughts crowd on my memory.
Will you be kind, and answer me one question?
Pol. I'd trust thee with my life; on those soft breasts
Breathe out the choicest secrets of my heart,
Till I had nothing in it left but love.
Mon. Nay, I'll conjure you, by the gods, and angels,
By the honour of your name, that's most concerned,
To tell me, Polydore, and tell me truly,
Where did you rest last night?
Pol. Within thy arms
I triumphed: rest had been my foe.
Mon. 'Tis done. [She faints.
Pol. She faints! No help! Who waits? A curse
Upon my vanity, that could not keep
The secret of my happiness in silence.
Confusion! we shall be surprised anon;
And consequently all must be betrayed.
Monimia!—she breathes.—Monimia!
Mon. Well;
Let mischiefs multiply! Let every hour
Of my loathed life yield me increase of horror!
Oh, let the sun to these unhappy eyes
Ne'er shine again, but be eclipsed for ever!
May every thing I look on seem a prodigy,
To fill my soul with terrors, till I quite
Forget I ever had humanity,
And grow a curser of the works of nature!
Pol. What means all this?
Mon. Oh, Polydore, if all
The friendship e'er you vowed to good Castalio
Be not a falsehood; if you ever loved
Your brother, you've undone yourself and me.
Pol. Which way can ruin reach the man that's rich,
As I am, in possession of thy sweetness?
Mon. Oh! I'm his wife.
Pol. What says Monimia? ha!
Speak that again.
Mon. I am Castalio's wife.
Pol. His married, wedded wife?
Mon. Yesterday's sun
Saw it performed.
Pol. And then have I enjoyed
My brother's wife?
Mon. As surely as we both
Must taste of misery, that guilt is thine.
Pol. Must we be miserable then?
Mon. Oh!
Pol. Oh! thou mayst yet be happy.
Mon. Couldst thou be
Happy, with such a weight upon thy soul?
Pol. It may be yet a secret: I'll go try
To reconcile and bring Castalio to thee;
Whilst from the world I take myself away,
And waste my life in penance for my sin.
Mon. Then thou wouldst more undo me; heap a load
Of added sins upon my wretched head:
Wouldst thou again have me betray thy brother,
And bring pollution to his arms? curst thought!
Oh, when shall I be mad indeed!
Pol. Nay, then,
Let us embrace, and from this very moment
Vow an eternal misery together.
Mon. And wilt thou be a very faithful wretch?
Never grow fond of cheerful peace again?
Wilt thou with me study to be unhappy,
And find out ways how to increase affliction?
Pol. We'll institute new arts unknown before
To vary plagues, and make them look like new ones.
First, if, the fruit of our detested joy,
A child be born, it shall be murdered—
Mon. No;
Sure that may live?
Pol. Why?
Mon. To become a thing
More wretched than its parents; to be branded
With all our infamy, and curse its birth.
Pol. That's well contrived; then thus let's go together,
Full of our guilt, distracted where to roam,
Like the first wretched pair expelled their paradise.
Let's find some place where adders nest in winter,
Loathsome and venomous; where poisons hang
Like gums against the walls; where witches meet
By night, and feed upon some pampered imp,
Fat with the blood of babes: there we'll inhabit,
And live up to the height of desperation.
Desire shall languish like a withering flower,
And no distinction of the sex be thought of.
Horrors shall fright me from those pleasing harms,
And I'll no more be caught with beauty's charms;
But when I'm dying, take me in thy arms! [Exeunt.

ACT THE FIFTH.

SCENE I.—The Garden before ACASTO'S House.

CASTALIO discovered lying on the ground.

SONG.

Come, all ye youths, whose hearts e'er bled
By cruel beauty's pride;
Bring each a garland on his head,
Let none his sorrows hide:
But hand in hand around me move,
Singing the saddest tales of love;
And see, when your complaints ye join,
If all your wrongs can equal mine.

The happiest mortal once was I;
My heart no sorrows knew:
Pity the pain with which I die;
But ask not whence it grew.
Yet if a tempting fair you find,
That's very lovely, very kind,
Though bright as Heaven, whose stamp she bears,
Think of my fate, and shun her snares.

Cast. See where the deer trot after one another,
Male, female, father, daughter, mother, son,
Brother and sister, mingled all together;
No discontent they know, but in delightfulWildness and freedom, pleasant
springs, fresh herbage,
Calm harbours, lusty health and innocence,
Enjoy their portion; if they see a man,
How will they turn together all, and gaze
Upon the monster!
Once in a season too they taste of love:
Only the beast of reason is its slave,
And in that folly drudges all the year.

Enter ACASTO.

Acast. Castalio! Castalio!
Cast. Who's there
So wretched but to name Castalio?
Acast. I hope my message may succeed.
Cast. My father!
'Tis joy to see you, though where sorrow's nourished.
Acast. I'm come in beauty's cause; you'll guess the rest.
Cast. A woman! if you love my peace of mind,
Name not a woman to me; but to think
Of woman, were enough to taint my brains,
Till they ferment to madness! O my father!
Acast. What ails my boy?
Cast. A woman is the thing
I would forget, and blot from my remembrance.
Acast. Forget Monimia!
Cast. She to choose: Monimia!
The very sound's ungrateful to my sense.
Acast. This might seem strange; but you, I've found, will hide
Your heart from me; you dare not trust your father.
Cast. No more Monimia!
Acast. Is she not your wife? Cast. So much the worse: who
loves
to hear of wife?
When you would give all worldly plagues a name
Worse than they have already, call them wife:
But a new-married wife's a teeming mischief,
Full of herself: why, what a deal of horror
Has that poor wretch to come, that wedded yesterday!
Acast. Castalio, you must go along with me,
And see Monimia.
Cast. Sure, my lord but mocks me:
Go see Monimia! Pray, my lord, excuse me;
And leave the conduct of this part of life
To my own choice.
Acast. I say, no more dispute:
Complaints are made to me, that you have wronged her.
Cast. Who has complained?
Acast. Her brother to my face proclaimed her wronged,
And in such terms they've warmed me.
Cast. What terms? Her brother! Heaven! where learnt he that?
What, does she send her hero with defiance?
He durst not sure affront you?
Acast. No, not much.
But—
Cast. Speak, what said he?
Acast. That thou wert a villain:
Methinks I would not have thee thought a villain.
Cast. Shame on the ill-mannered brute! Your age secured him;
He durst not else have said so.
Acast. By my sword,
I would not see thee wronged, and bear it vilely;
Though I have passed my word she shall have justice.
Cast. Justice! to give her justice would undo her:
Think you this solitude I now have chosen,
Left joys just opening to my sense, sought here
A place to curse my fate in, measured out
My grave at length, wished to have grown one piece
With this cold clay, and all without a cause?

Enter CHAMONT.

Cham. Where is the hero, famous and renowned
For wronging innocence, and breaking vows;
Whose mighty spirit, and whose stubborn heart,
No woman can appease, nor man provoke?
Acast. I guess, Chamont, you come to seek Castalio.
Cham. I come to seek the husband of Monimia.
Cast. The slave is here.
Cham. I thought ere now to have found you
Atoning for the ills you've done Chamont;
For you have wronged the dearest part of him.
Monimia, young lord, weeps in this heart;
And all the tears thy injuries have drawn
From her poor eyes are drops of blood from hence.
Cast. Then you're Chamont?
Cham. Yes, and I hope no stranger
To great Castalio.
Cast. I've heard of such a man,
That has been very busy with my honour.
I own I'm much indebted to you, sir;
And here return the villain back again
You sent me by my father. Cham. Thus I'll thank you. [Draws.
Acast. By this good sword, who first presumes to violence
Makes me his foe! [Draws, and interposes.
Young man, it once was thought [To CASTALIO.
I was fit guardian of my house's honour,
And you might trust your share with me.—For you,
[To CHAMONT.
Young soldier, I must tell you, you have wronged me:
I promised you to do Monimia right;
And thought my word a pledge I would not forfeit:
But you, I find, would fright us to performance.
Cast. Sir, in my younger years with care you taught me
That brave revenge was due to injured honour;
Oppose not then the justice of my sword,
Lest you should make me jealous of your love.
Cham. Into thy father's arms thou fliest for safety,
Because thou know'st the place is sanctified
With the remembrance of an ancient friendship.
Cast. I am a villain if I will not seek thee,
Till I may be revenged for all the wrongs
Done me by that ungrateful fair thou plead'st for.
Cham. She wronged thee! by the fury in my heart,
Thy father's honour's not above Monimia's!
Nor was thy mother's truth and virtue fairer.
Acast. Boy, don't disturb the ashes of the dead
With thy capricious follies: the remembrance
Of the loved creature that once filled these arms—
Cham. Has not been wronged.
Cast. It shall not.
Cham. No, nor shall
Monimia, though a helpless orphan, destitute
Of friends and fortune, though the unhappy sister
Of poor Chamont, whose sword is all his portion,
Be oppressed by thee, thou proud, imperious traitor!
Cast. Ha! set me free.
Cham. Come both!

Enter SERINA.

Ser. Alas! alas!
The cause of these disorders, my Chamont?
Who is't has wronged thee?
Cast. Now where art thou fled
For shelter?
Cham. Come from thine, and see what safeguard
Shall then betray my fears.
Ser. Cruel Castalio,
Sheathe up thy angry sword, and don't affright me.
Chamont, let once Serina calm thy breast;
If any of my friends have done thee injuries,
I'll be revenged, and love thee better for it.
Cast. Sir, if you'd have me think you did not take
This opportunity to show your vanity,
Let's meet some other time, when by ourselves
We fairly may dispute our wrongs together.
Cham. Till then, I am Castalio's friend.
Cast. Serina,
Farewell; I wish much happiness attend you.
Ser. Chamont's the dearest thing I have on earth;
Give me Chamont, and let the world forsake me!
Cham. Witness the gods, how happy I'm in thee!
No beauteous blossom of the fragrant spring,
Though the fair child of nature newly born,
Can be so lovely.—Angry, unkind Castalio,
Suppose I should awhile lay by my passions,
And be a beggar in Monimia's cause,
Might it be heard?
Cast. Sir, 'twas my last request
You would, though you I find will not be satisfied:
So, in a word, Monimia is my scorn;
She basely sent you here to try my fears;
That was your business.
No artful prostitute, in falsehoods practised,
To make advantage of her coxcomb's follies,
Could have done more—disquiet vex her for't!
Cham. Farewell. [Exeunt CHAMONT and SERINA.
Cast. Farewell.—My father, you seem troubled.
Acast. Would I'd been absent when this boisterous brave
Came to disturb thee thus! I'm grieved I hindered
Thy just resentment. But Monimia—
Cast. Damn her!
Acast. Don't curse her.
Cast. Did I?
Acast. Yes.
Cast. I'm sorry for't.
Acast. Methinks, if, as I guess, the fault's but small,
It might be pardoned.
Cast. No.
Acast. What has she done?
Cast. That she's my wife, may Heaven and you forgive me!
Acast. Be reconciled then
Cast. No.
Acast. Go see her.
Cast. No.
Acast. I'll send and bring her hither.
Cast. No.
Acast. For my sake,
Castalio, and the quiet of my age.
Cast. Why will you urge a thing my nature starts at?
Acast. Pr'ythee forgive her.
Cast. Lightnings first shall blast me!
I tell you, were she prostrate at my feet,
Full of her sex's best dissembled sorrows,
And all that wondrous beauty of her own,
My heart might break, but it should never soften.

Enter FLORELLA.

Flor. My lord, where are you? O Castalio!
Acast. Hark!
Cast. What's that?
Flor. Oh, show me quickly, where's Castalio?
Acast. Why, what's the business?
Flor. Oh, the poor Monimia!
Cast. Ha!
Acast. What's the matter?
Flor. Hurried by despair,
She flies with fury over all the house,
Through every room of each apartment, crying,
"Where's my Castalio? give me my Castalio!"
Except she sees you, sure she'll grow distracted.
Cast. Ha! will she? does she name Castalio?
And with such tenderness? Conduct me quickly
To the poor lovely mourner. O my father!
Acast. Then wilt thou go? Blessings attend thy purpose.
Cast. I cannot hear Monimia's soul in sadness,
And be a man; my heart will not forget her.
But do not tell the world you saw this of me.
Acast. Delay not then, but haste and cheer thy love.
Cast. Oh! I will throw my impatient arms about her,
In her soft bosom sigh my soul to peace:
Till through the panting breast she finds the way
To mould my heart, and make it what she will.
Monimia! Oh! [Exeunt.

SCENE II.—A Room in ACASTO'S House.

Enter MONIMIA.

Mon. Stand off, and give me room!
I will not rest till I have found Castalio,
My wishes' lord, comely as rising day,
Amidst ten thousand eminently known.
Flowers spring up where'er he treads; his eyes,
Fountains of brightness, cheering all about him—
When will they shine on me?—O stay, my soul!
I cannot die in peace till I have seen him.

Enter. CASTALIO.

Cast. Who talks of dying, with a voice so sweet
That life's in love with't?
Mon. Hark! 'tis he that answers;
So in a camp, though at the dead of night,
If but the trumpet's cheerful noise is heard,
All at the signal leap from downy rest,
And every heart awakes, as mine does now.
Where art thou?
Cast. Here, my love.
Mon. No nearer, lest I vanish.
Cast. Have I been in a dream then all this while?
And art thou but the shadow of Monimia?
Why dost thou fly me thus?
Mon. Oh! were it possible that we could drown
In dark oblivion but a few past hours,
We might be happy.
Cast. Is't then so hard, Monimia, to forgive
A fault, where humble love, like mine, implores thee?
For I must love thee, though it prove my ruin.
Which way shall I court thee?
What shall I do to be enough thy slave,
And satisfy the lovely pride that's in thee?
I'll kneel to thee, and weep a flood before thee:
Yet pr'ythee, tyrant, break not quite my heart;
But when my task of penitence is done,
Heal it again, and comfort me with love.
Mon. If I am dumb, Castalio, and want words
To pay thee back this mighty tenderness,
It is because I look on thee with horror,
And cannot see the man I so have wronged,
Cast. Thou hast not wronged me.
Mon. Ah! alas, thou talk'st
Just as thy poor heart thinks. Have not I wronged thee?
Cast. No.
Mon. Still thou wander'st in the dark, Castalio;
But wilt ere long stumble on horrid danger.
Cast. What means my love?
Mon. Couldst thou but forgive me!
Cast. What?
Mon. For my fault last night: alas, thou canst not!
Cast. I can, and do.
Mon. Thus crawling on the earth [Kneels.
Would I that pardon meet; the only thing
Can make me view the face of Heaven with hope.
Cast. Then let's draw near. [Raises her.
Mon. Ah me!
Cast. So in the fields,
When the destroyer has been out for prey,
The scattered lovers of the feathered kind,
Seeking, when danger's past, to meet again,
Make moan and call, by such degrees approach,
Till joining thus they bill, and spread their wings,
Murmuring love, and joy their fears are over.
Mon. Yet have a care, be not too fond of peace,
Lest, in pursuance of the goodly quarry,
Thou meet a disappointment that distracts thee.
Cast. My better angel, then, do thou inform me
What danger threatens me, and where it lies:
Why didst thou,—pr'ythee smile and tell me why,—
When I stood waiting underneath the window,
Quaking with fierce and violent desires
(The dropping dews fell cold upon my head,
Darkness enclosed, and the winds whistled round me,
Which with my mournful sighs made such and music
As might have moved the hardest heart); why wert thou
Deaf to my cries, and senseless of my pains?
Mon. Did I not beg thee to forbear inquiry?
Read'st thou not something in my face, that speaks
Wonderful change and horror from within me?
Cast. Then there is something yet which I've not Known:
What dost thou mean by horror, and forbearance
Of more inquiry? Tell me, I beg thee tell me;
And don't betray me to a second madness.
Mon. Must I?
Cast. If, labouring in the pangs of death,
Thou wouldst do anything to give me ease,
Unfold this riddle ere my thoughts grow wild,
And let in fears of ugly form upon me.
Mon. My heart won't let me speak it; but remember,
Monimia, poor Monimia tells you this,
We ne'er must meet again.
Cast. What means any destiny?
For all my good or evil fate dwells in thee.
Ne'er meet again!
Mon. No, never.
Cast. Where's the power
On earth, that dares not look like thee, and say so?
Thou art my heart's inheritance; I served
A long and painful, faithful slavery for thee,
And who shall rob me of the dear-bought blessing?
Mon. Time will clear all, but now let this content you:
Heaven has decreed, and therefore I've resolved,—
With torment I must tell it thee, Castalio,—
Ever to be a stranger to thy love;
In some far-distant country waste my life,
And from this day to see thy face no more.
Cast. Where am I? Sure I wander 'midst enchantment,
And never more shall find the way to rest.
But, O Monimia! art thou indeed resolved
To punish me with everlasting absence?
Why turn'st thou from me? I'm alone already.
Methinks I stand upon a naked beach,
Sighing to winds, and to the seas complaining,
Whilst afar off the vessel sails away.
Where all the treasure of my soul's embarked.
Wilt thou not turn?—Oh! could those eyes but speak,
I should know all, for love is pregnant in them;
They swell, they press their beams upon me still.
Wilt thou not speak? If we must part for ever,
Give me but one kind word to think upon,
And please myself withal, whilst my heart's breaking!
Mon. Ah, poor Castalio! [Exit.
Cast. Pity! by the gods,
She pities me! Then thou wilt go eternally?
What means all this? why all this stir, to plague
A single wretch? If but your word can shake
This world to atoms, why so much ado
With me? Think me but dead, and lay me so.

Enter POLYDORE.

Pol. To live, and live a torment to myself!
What dog would bear't, that knew but his condition?
We've little knowledge, and that makes us cowards,
Because it cannot tell us what's to come.
Cast. Who's there?
Pol. Why, what art thou?
Cast. My brother Polydore?
Pol. My name is Polydore.
Cast. Canst thou inform me—
Pol. Of what?
Cast. Of my Monimia?
Pol. No. Good-day.
Cast. In haste?
Methinks my Polydore appears in sadness.
Pol. Indeed, and so to me does my Castalio.
Cast. Do I?
Pol. Thou dost.
Cast. Alas! I've wondrous reason;
I'm strangely altered, brother, since I saw thee.
Pol. Why?
Cast. Oh! to tell thee would but put thy heart
To pain. Let me embrace thee but a little,
And weep upon thy neck; I would repose
Within thy friendly bosom all my follies;
For thou wilt pardon them, because they're mine.
Pol. Be not too credulous; consider first;
Friends may be false. Is there no friendship false?
Cast. Why dost thou ask me that? does this appear
Like a false friendship, when with open arms
And streaming eyes I run upon thy breast?
Oh, 'tis in thee alone I must have comfort!
Pol. I fear, Castalio, I have none to give thee.
Cast. Dost thou not love me then?
Pol. Oh, more than life:
I never had a thought of my Castalio
Might wrong the friendship we had vowed together.
Hast thou dealt so by me?
Cast. I hope I have.
Pol. Then tell me why this mourning; this disorder?
Cast. O Polydore! I know not how to tell thee;
Shame rises in my face, and interrupts
The story of my tongue.
Pol. I grieve my friend
Knows anything which he's ashamed to tell me;
Or didst thou e'er conceal thy thoughts from Polydore?
Cast. Oh! much too oft; but let me here conjure thee,
By all the kind affection of a brother,—
For I'm ashamed to call myself thy friend,—
Forgive me.
Pol. Well, go on.
Cast. Our destiny contrived
To plague us both with one unhappy love:
Thou, like a friend, a constant generous friend,
In its first pangs didst trust me with thy passion;
Whilst I still smoothed my pain with smiles before thee,
And made a contract I ne'er meant to keep.
Pol. How!
Cast. Still new ways I studied to abuse thee,
And kept thee as a stranger to my passion,
Till yesterday I wedded with Monimia.
Pol. Ah, Castalio,
Was that well done?
Cast. No; to conceal't from thee
Was much a fault.
Pol. A fault! When thou hast heard
The tale I'll tell, what wilt thou call it then?
Cast. How my heart throbs!
Pol. First, for thy friendship, traitor,
I cancel it thus; after this day I'll ne'er
Hold trust or converse with the false Castalio:
This witness Heaven!
Cast. What will my fate do with me?
I've lost all happiness, and know not why.
What means this, brother?
Pol. Perjured, treacherous wretch, Farewell!
Cast. I'll be thy slave; and thou shalt use me
Just as thou wilt, do but forgive me.
Pol. Never.
Cast. Oh! think a little what thy heart is doing;
How from our infancy we hand in hand
Have trod the path of life in love together;
One bed has held us, and the same desires,
The same aversions, still employed our thoughts;
Whene'er had I a friend that was not Polydore's,
Or Polydore a foe that was not mine?
Even in the womb we embraced; and wilt thou now,
For the first fault, abandon and forsake me,
Leave me amidst afflictions to myself,
Plunged in the gulf of grief, and none to help me?
Pol. Go to Monimia; in her arms thou'lt find
Repose; she has the art of healing sorrows.
Cast. What arts?
Pol. Blind wretch, thou husband! there's a question!
Go to her fulsome bed, and wallow there,
Till some hot ruffian, full of lust and wine,
Come storm thee out, and show thee what's thy bargain.
Cast. Hold there, I charge thee!
Pol. Is she not a—
Cast. Whore?
Pol. Ay, whore; I think that word needs no explaining.
Cast. Alas! I can forgive even this to thee:
But let me tell thee, Polydore, I'm grieved
To find thee guilty of such low revenge,
To wrong that virtue which thou couldst not ruin.
Pol. It seems I lie then?
Cast. Should the bravest man
That e'er wore conquering sword but dare to whisper
What thou proclaim'st, he were the worst of liars:
My friend may be mistaken.
Pol. Damn the evasion!
Thou mean'st the worst; and he's a base-born villain
That said I lied.
Cast. Do, draw thy sword, and thrust it through my heart;
There is no joy in life, if thou art lost.
A base-born villain!
Pol. Yes, thou never camest
From old Acasto's loins; the midwife put
A cheat upon my mother, and, instead
Of a true brother, in the cradle by me
Placed some coarse peasant's cub, and thou art he.
Cast. Thou art my brother still.
Pol. Thou liest.
Cast. Nay then: [He draws.
Yet I am calm.
Pol. A coward's always so.
Cast. Ah—ah—that stings home: coward!
Pol. Ay, base-born coward, villain.
Cast. This to thy heart then, though my mother bore thee. [They
fight; POLYDORE drops his sword, and runs on CASTALIO'S.
Pol. Now my Castalio is again my friend.
Cast. What have I done? my sword is in thy breast!
Pol. So I would have it be, thou best of men,
Thou kindest brother, and thou truest friend.
Cast. Ye gods, we're taught that all your works are justice;
You're painted merciful, and friends to innocence:
If so, then why these plagues upon my head?
Pol. Blame not the Heavens; here lies thy fate,
Castalio.
They're not the gods, 'tis Polydore has wronged thee;
I've stained thy bed; thy spotless marriage-joys
Have been polluted by thy brother's lust.
Cast. By thee!
Pol. By me: last night the horrid deed
Was done, when all things slept, but rage and incest.
Cast. Now where's Monimia? Oh!

Re-enter MONIMIA.

Mon. I'm here; who calls me?
Methought I heard a voice
Sweet as the shepherd's pipe upon the mountains,
When all his little flock's at feed before him.
But what means this? here's blood!
Cast. Ay, brother's blood.
Art thou prepared for everlasting pains?
Pol. Oh, let me charge thee by the eternal justice,
Hurt not her tender life!
Cast. Not kill her! Rack me,
Ye powers above, with all your choicest torments,
Horror of mind, and pains yet uninvented,
If I not practise cruelty upon her,
And wreak revenge some way yet never known!
Mon. That task myself have finished: I shall die
Before we part; I've drunk a healing draught
For all my cares, and never more shall wrong thee.
Pol. Oh, she is innocent.
Cast. Tell me that story,
And thou wilt make a wretch of me indeed.
Pol. Hadst thou, Castalio, used me like a friend,
This ne'er had happened; hadst thou let me know
Thy marriage, we had all now met in joy:
But, ignorant of that,
Hearing the appointment made, enraged to think
Thou hadst outdone me in successful love,
I, in the dark, went and supplied thy place;
Whilst all the night, 'midst our triumphant joys,
The trembling, tender, kind, deceived Monimia
Embraced, caressed, and called me her Castalio.
Cast. And all this is the work of my own fortune!
None but myself could e'er have been so curst.
My fatal love, alas! has ruined thee,
Thou fairest, goodliest frame the gods e'er made,
Or ever human eyes and heart adored!
I've murdered too my brother.
Why wouldst thou study ways to damn me further,
And force the sin of parricide upon me?
Pol. 'Twas my own fault, and thou art innocent.
Forgive the barbarous trespass of my tongue;
'Twas a hard violence; I could have died
With love of thee, even when I used thee worst;
Nay, at each word that my distraction uttered,
My heart recoiled, and 'twas half death to speak them.
Mon. Now, my Castalio, the most dear of men,
Wilt thou receive pollution to thy bosom,
And close the eyes of one that has betrayed thee?
Cast. Oh, I'm the unhappy wretch whose cursèd fate
Has weighed thee down into destruction with him;
Why then thus kind to me?
Mon. When I'm laid low i' the grave, and quite forgotten,
Mayst thou be happy in a fairer bride!But none can ever love thee like
Monimia.
When I am dead,—as presently I shall be,
For the grim tyrant grasps my heart already,—
Speak well of me; and if thou find ill tongues
Too busy with my fame, don't hear me wronged;
'Twill be a noble justice to the memory
Of a poor wretch once honoured with thy love.
How my head swims!—'tis very dark. Good-night!
[Dies.
Cast. If I survive thee! what a thought was that!
Thank Heaven, I go prepared against that curse!

Enter CHAMONT, disarmed, and held by ACASTO and Servants.

Cham. Gape, hell, and swallow me to quick damnation,
If I forgive your house, if I not live
An everlasting plague to thee, Acasto,
And all thy race! You've overpowered me now;
But hear me, Heaven!—Ah! here's the scene of death.
My sister, my Monimia! breathless!—Now,
Ye powers above, if ye have justice, strike,
Strike bolts through me, and through the cursed Castalio!
Acast. My Polydore!
Pol. Who calls?
Acast. How camest thou wounded?
Cast. Stand off, thou hot-brained, boisterous, noisy ruffian,
And leave me to my sorrows.
Cham. By the love
I bore her living, I will ne'er forsake her!
But here remain till my heart burst with sobbing.
Cast. Vanish, I charge thee, or—[Draws a dagger.
Cham. Thou canst not kill me;
That would be kindness, and against thy nature.
Acast. What means Castalio? Sure thou wilt not pull
More sorrows on thy agèd father's head.
Tell me, I beg you, tell me the sad cause
Of all this ruin.
Pol. That must be my task:
But 'tis too long for one in pains to tell;
You'll in my closet find the story written
Of all our woes. Castalio's innocent,
And so's Monimia; only I'm to blame:
Inquire no farther.
Cast. Thou, unkind Chamont,
Unjustly hast pursued me with thy hate,
And sought the life of him that never wronged thee:
Now, if thou wilt embrace a noble vengeance,
Come join with me and curse.
Cham. What?
Cast. First thyself,
As I do, and the hour that gave thee birth.
Confusion and disorder seize the world,
To spoil all trust and converse amongst men;
'Twixt families engender endless feuds,
In countries needless fears, in cities factions,
In states rebellion, and in churches schism;
Till all things move against the course of nature;
Till form's dissolved, the chain of causes broken,
And the originals of being lost!
Acast. Have patience.
Cast. Patience! preach it to the winds,
To roaring seas, or raging fires! The knaves
That teach it laugh at ye when ye believe them.
Strip me of all the common needs of life,
Scald me with leprosy, let friends forsake me,
I'll bear it all; but, cursed to the degree
That I am now, 'tis this must give me patience:
Thus I find rest, and shall complain no more.
[Stabs himself.
Pol. Castalio! Oh! [Dies.
Cast. I come.
Chamont, to thee my birthright I bequeath:
Comfort my mourning father, heal his griefs,
[ACASTO faints into the arms of a Servant.
For I perceive they fall with weight upon him;
And for Monimia's sake, whom thou wilt find
I never wronged, be kind to poor Serina.
Now all I beg is, lay me in one grave
Thus with my love, Farewell! I now am—nothing.
[Dies.
Cham. Take care of good Acasto, whilst I go
To search the means by which the fates have plagued us.
'Tis thus that Heaven its empire does maintain;
It may afflict, but man must not complain.
[Exeunt.

EPILOGUE.

SPOKEN BY SERINA.
YOU'VE seen one Orphan ruined here; and I
May be the next, if old Acasto die.
Should it prove so, I'd fain amongst you find
Who 'tis would to the fatherless be kind.
To whose protection might I safely go?
Is there amongst you no good-nature? No.
What should I do? Should I the godly seek,
And go a conventicling twice a week;
Quit the lewd stage, and its profane pollution,
Affect each form and saint-like institution;
So draw the brethren all to contribution?
Or shall I (as I guess the poet may
Within these three days) fairly run away?
No; to some city-lodgings I'll retire;
Seem very grave, and privacy desire;
Till I am thought some heiress rich in lands,
Fled to escape a cruel guardian's hands:
Which may produce a story worth the telling,
Of the next sparks that go a fortune-stealing.

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