SCENE I.A SALOON.
Enter Acasto, Castalio, Polydore, and Attendants.
Acas. To-day has been a day of glorious sport:
When you, Castalio, and your brother, left me,
Forth from the thickets rush'd another boar,
So large, he seem'd the tyrant of the woods,
With all his dreadful bristles rais'd up high,
They seem'd 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 large tusks, and gaping wide,
As if he already had me for his prey!
Till, brandishing my well-pois'd javelin high,
With this bold executing arm I struck
The ugly brindled monster to the heart.
Cas. The actions of your life were always wondrous.
Acas. 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.
Cas. 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.
Methinks, I would be busy.
Pol. So would I,
Not loiter out my life at home, and know
No further than one prospect gives me leave.
Acas. Busy your minds then, study arts and men;
Learn how to value merit, though in rags,
And scorn a proud, ill-manner'd, knave in office.
Enter Serina.
Ser. My lord, my father!
Acas. 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 wish'd for,
Is just arriv'd, and entering.
Acas. 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 relic of the best lov'd 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.
Enter Monimia.
Mon. My brother!
Cham. O 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 satisfy'd my soul
With fancy'd joys, till morning cares awak'd me.
Another sister! sure, it must be so;
Though I remember well I had but one:
But I feel something in my heart that prompts,
And tells me, she has claim and interest there.
Acas. 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.
Acas. Thus happy, who would envy pompous pow'r,
The luxury of courts, or wealth of cities?
Let there be joy through all the house this day!
In ev'ry 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 bus'ness there;
I have not slavish temperance enough
T' attend a favourite's heels, and watch his smiles,
Bear an ill office done me to my face,
And thank the lord that wrong'd me, for his favour.
Acas. This you could do.[to his Sons.
Cas. I'd serve my prince.
Acas. Who'd serve him?
Cas. I would, my lord.
Pol. And I; both would.
Acas. 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?
Cas. 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 ev'ry true-born, loyal, subject ought.
Acas. Let me embrace ye 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!
Enter a Servant.
Serv. My lord, th' expected guests are just arriv'd.
Acas. Go you and give 'em welcome and reception.
[exeunt Castalio and Polydore.
Cham. My lord, I stand in need of your assistance,
In something that concerns my peace and honour.
Acas. Spoke like the son of that brave man I lov'd!
So freely, friendly, we convers'd 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!
Acas. Pr'ythee no more of that, it grates my nature.
Cham. When our dear parents dy'd, they dy'd together;
One fate surpris'd 'em, and one grave receiv'd 'em;
My father, with his dying breath, bequeath'd
Her to my love; my mother, as she lay
Languishing by him, call'd me to her side,
Took me in her fainting arms, wept, and embrac'd me;
Then press'd me close, and, as she observ'd my tears,
Kiss'd them away: said she, "Chamont, my son,
By this, and all the love I ever show'd thee,
Be careful of Monimia: watch her youth;
Let not her wants betray her to dishonour;
Perhaps, kind heav'n may raise some friend." Then sigh'd,
Kiss'd me again; so bless'd us, and expir'd.
Pardon my grief.
Acas. It speaks an honest nature.
Cham. The friend heav'n rais'd was you; you took her up,
An infant, to the desert world expos'd,
And prov'd another parent.
Acas. I've not wrong'd her.
Cham. Far be it from my fears.
Acas. Then why this argument?
Cham. My lord, my nature's jealous, and you'll bear it.
Acas. Go on.
Cham. Great spirits bear misfortunes hardly;
Good offices claim gratitude; and pride,
Where pow'r is wanting, will usurp a little,
And make us (rather than be thought behind hand)
Pay over price.
Acas. I cannot guess your drift;
Distrust you me?
Cham. No, but I fear her weakness
May make her pay her debt at any rate:
And, to deal freely with your lordship's goodness,
I've heard a story lately much disturbs me.
Acas. Then first charge her; and if th' 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 rejoic'd in,
I'd prosecute it with severest vengeance.[exit.
Cham. I thank you, from my soul.
Mon. Alas, my brother! what have I done?
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 thou 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 never shall.
Cham. Then you'll remember too he was a man
That liv'd up to the standard of his honour,
And priz'd 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 forgiv'n it to himself.
This was the only portion that he left us;
And I more glory in't than if possess'd
Of all that ever fortune threw on fools.
'Twas a large trust, and must be manag'd nicely;
Now, if by any chance, Monimia,
You have soil'd 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 on my bed, all darkness round me,
A sudden damp struck to my heart, cold sweat
Dew'd all my face, and trembling seiz'd my limbs:
My bed shook under me, the curtains started,
And to my tortur'd fancy there appear'd
The form of thee, thus beauteous as thou art;
Thy garments flowing loose, and in each hand
A wanton lover, who by turns caress'd thee
With all the freedom of unbounded pleasure.
I snatch'd my sword, and in the very moment
Darted it at the phantom; straight it left me;
Then rose, and call'd for lights, when, O dire omen!
I found my weapon had the arras pierc'd,
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 tortur'd waking!
Cham. Have a care;
Labour not to be justify'd too fast:
Hear all, and then let justice hold the scale.
What follow'd was the riddle that confounds me.
Through a close lane, as I pursu'd my journey,
And meditating on the last night's vision,
I spy'd a wrinkled hag, with age grown double,
Picking dry sticks, and mumbling to herself;
Her eyes with scalding rheum were gall'd and red:
Cold palsy shook her head, her hands seem'd wither'd,
And on her crooked shoulders had she wrapp'd
The tatter'd remnant of an old strip'd hanging,
Which serv'd to keep her carcase from the cold:
So there was nothing of a piece about her.
Her lower weeds were all o'er coarsely patch'd
With diff'rent colour'd rags, black, red, white, yellow,
And seem'd to speak variety of wretchedness.
I ask'd her of my way, which she inform'd me;
Then crav'd 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, alter'd? does your courage fail you?
Now, by my father's soul, the witch was honest.
Answer me, if thou hast not lost them
Thy honour at a sordid game?
Mon. I will,
I must, so hardly my misfortune loads me:—
That both have offer'd me their love's most true.
Cham. And 'tis as true too they have both undone thee.
Mon. Though they both with earnest vows
Have press'd my heart, if e'er in thought I yielded
To any but Castalio——
Cham. But Castalio!
Mon. Still will you cross the line of my discourse.
Yes, I confess that he hath won my soul
By gen'rous 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 preserv'd
Thy virtue white, without a blot, untainted?
Mon. When I'm unchaste, may heaven reject my prayers;
O more, to make me wretched, may you know it!
Cham. Oh then, Monimia, art thou dearer to me
Than all the comforts ever yet bless'd 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 sooth 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 wrong'd me,
In leaving me to Polydore's ill usage.
He comes; and now, for once, O Love, stand neuter,
Whilst a hard part's perform'd; for I must tempt,
Wound, his soft nature, though my heart aches for't.
Re-enter Castalio.
Cas. Monimia, my angel! 'twas not kind
To leave me here alone.
Re-enter Polydore, with Page, at the door.
Pol. Here place yourself, and watch my brother thoroughly;
Pass not one circumstance without remark.
[apart to Page, and exit.
Cas. 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. O the bewitching tongues of faithless men!
'Tis thus the false hyena makes her moan,
To draw the pitying traveller to her den:
Your sex are so, such false dissemblers all;
With sighs and plaints y' entice poor women's hearts,
And all that pity you are made your prey.
Cas. What means my love? Oh, how have I deserv'd
This language from the sovereign of my joys?
Stop, stop, these tears, Monimia, for they fall
Like baneful dew from a distemper'd sky;
I feel 'em chill me to my very heart.
Mon. Oh, you are false, Castalio, most forsworn!
Attempt no further to delude my faith;
My heart is fix'd, and you shall shake't no more.
Cas. 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,
Th' unhappy object of your father's charity,
Licentiously discours'd to me of love,
And durst affront me with his brutal passion.
Cas. '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 own'd it,
Tax'd me with mine, and claim'd a right above me.
Mon. And was your love so very tame, to shrink?
Or, rather than lose him, abandon me?
Cas. I, knowing him precipitate and rash,
Seem'd to comply with his unruly will;
Lest he in rage might have our loves betray'd,
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.
Cas. 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,
While greedily we snatch th' alluring bait,
And ne'er distrust the poison that it hides.
Mon. When love, ill-plac'd, would find a means to break—
Cas. 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 soften'd when he would betray.
Like conqu'ring tyrants, you our breasts invade;
But soon you find new conquests out, and leave
The ravag'd province ruinate and waste.
If so, Castalio, you have serv'd my heart,
I find that desolation's settled there,
And I shall ne'er recover peace again.
Cas. Who can hear this and bear an equal mind?
Since you will drive me from you, I must go:
But, O Monimia! when thou hast banish'd me,
No creeping slave, though tractable and dull
As artful woman for her ends would choose,
Shall ever dote as I have done.
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.
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.
Cas. 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.
Sure, framing thee, heaven took unusual care;}
As its own beauty it design'd thee fair,
And form'd thee by the best lov'd angel there.
[exeunt.

ACT THE THIRD.

SCENE I. A GARDEN.
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 rag'd, Castalio grew disturb'd:
Each thought the other wrong'd; yet both so haughty,
They scorn'd submission, though love all the while
The rebel play'd, and scarce could be contain'd.
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 sigh'd and blush'd; Castalio swore;
As you, my lord, I well remember, did
To my young sister, in the orange grove,
When I was first preferr'd to be your page.
Pol. Boy, go to your chamber, and prepare your lute.
[exit Page.
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 refus'd?
Has he supplanted me by some foul play?
Traduc'd my honour? death! he durst not do't.
It must be so: we parted, and he met her,
Half to compliance brought by me; surpris'd
Her sinking virtue, till she yielded quite.
So poachers pick up tir'd game,
While the fair hunter's cheated of his prey.
Boy!
Enter a 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 rais'd high,
And chas'd the goblet round the joyful board,
A sudden trembling seiz'd on all his limbs;
His eyes distorted grew, his visage pale,
His speech forsook him, life itself seem'd fled,
And all his friends are waiting now about him.
Enter Acasto and Attendants.
Acas. 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 search'd, as you commanded, all the house!
He and Monimia are not to be found.
Acas. 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 prepar'd to meet him; and, methinks,
Would live and die with all my friends about me.
Enter Castalio.
Cas. Angels preserve my dearest father's life!
Oh! may he live till time itself decay,
Till good men wish him dead, or I offend him!
Acas. Thank you, Castalio: give me both your hands.
So now, methinks,
I appear as great as Hercules himself,
Supported by the pillars he has rais'd.
Enter Serina.
Ser. My father!
Acas. 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.
Acas. Rise to my arms, and thy kind pray'rs are answer'd.
For thou'rt a wondrous extract of all goodness;
Born for my joy, and no pain's felt when near thee.
Chamont!
Enter 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.
Acas. May'st thou be happy!
Cham. Where?
Acas. In all thy wishes.
Cham. Confirm me so, and make this fair one mine:
I am unpractis'd 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.
Acas. What says Serina? canst thou love a soldier?
One born to honour, and to honour bred?
One that has learn'd to treat e'en foes with kindness,
To wrong no good man's fame, nor praise himself?
Ser. Oh! name not love, for that's ally'd 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.
Acas. Chamont, pursue her, conquer, and possess her,
And, as my son, a third of all my fortune
Shall be thy lot.
Chamont, you told me of some doubts that press'd you:
Are you yet satisfy'd 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.
Acas. I thank you.
My friends, 'tis late:
Now my disorder seems all past and over,
And I, methinks, begin to feel new health.
Cas. Would you but rest, it might restore you quite.
Acas. Yes, I'll to bed; old men must humour weakness.
Good night, my friends! Heaven guard you all! Good night!
To-morrow early we'll salute the day,
Find out new pleasures, and renew lost time.
[exeunt all but Chamont and Chaplain.
Cham. If you're at leisure, sir, we'll waste an hour:
'Tis yet too soon to sleep, and t'will 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 that my parents
Would make me what you see me.
Cham. Have you had long dependance 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.
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,
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. Ev'ry body lov'd him; besides, he was my patron'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?
Chap. Love your sister?
Cham. Ay, love her.
Chap. Either he loves her, or he much has wrong'd her.
Cham. How wrong'd her? have a care; for this may lay
A scene of mischief to undo us all.
But tell me, wrong'd her, saidst thou?
Chap. Ay, sir, wrong'd her.
Cham. This is a secret worth a monarch's fortune:
What shall I give thee for't? thou dear physician
Of sickly wounds, unfold this riddle to me,
And comfort mine——
Chap. I would hide nothing from you willingly.
Cham. By the reverenc'd 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 mov'd and I will trust you.
Cham. Wilt thou?
Chap. I will; but if it ever 'scape you——
Cham. It never shall.
Chap. Then, this good day, when all the house was busy,
When mirth and kind rejoicing fill'd each room,
As I was walking in the grove I met them.
Cham. What, met them in the grove together?
Chap. I, by their own appointment, met them there,
Receiv'd their marriage vows, and join'd their hands.
Cham. How! married?
Chap. Yes, sir.
Cham. Then my soul's at peace:
But why would you so long delay 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 e'en to them, the new-match'd pair. Farewel!
Believe the truth, and know me for thy friend.[exeunt.
Re-enter Castalio, with Monimia.
Cas. Young Chamont and the chaplain! sure 'tis they!
No matter what's contriv'd, or who consulted,
Since my Monimia's mine; though this sad look
Seems no good boding omen to our bliss;
Else, pr'ythee, tell me why that look cast down,
Why that sad sigh, as if thy heart was breaking?
Mon. Castalio, I am thinking what we've done;
The heavenly powers were sure displeas'd to-day;
For, at the ceremony as we stood,
And as your hand was kindly join'd with mine,
As the good priest pronounc'd the sacred words,
Passion grew big, and I could not forbear:
Tears drown'd my eyes, and trembling seiz'd my soul.
What should that mean?
Cas. O, thou art tender all!
Gentle and kind as sympathising nature!
Re-enter Polydore, unobserved.
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.
Mon. 'Twill be impossible:
You know your father's chamber's next to mine,
And the least noise will certainly alarm him.
Cas. 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 betray'd.
Cas. Oh! doubt it not, Monimia; our joys
Shall be as silent as the ecstatic bliss
Of souls, that by intelligence converse.
Away, my love! first take this kiss. Now, haste:
I long for that to come, yet grudge each minute past.
My brother wand'ring too so late this way![exit Mon.
Pol. Castalio!
Cas. My Polydore, how dost thou?
How does our father? is he well recover'd?
Pol. I left him happily repos'd to rest:
He's still as gay as if his life was young.
But how does fair Monimia?
Cas. Doubtless, well:
A cruel beauty, with her conquest pleas'd,
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?
Cas. She's not woman else:
Though I'm grown weary of this tedious hoping;
We've in a barren desart stray'd too long.
Pol. Yet may relief be unexpected found,
And love's sweet manna cover all the field.
Met ye to-day?
Cas. No; she has still avoided me;
I wish I'd never meddled with the matter,
And would enjoin thee, Polydore——
Pol. To what?
Cas. 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.
Cas. But I have wond'rous reasons on my side,
That would persuade thee, were they known.
Pol. Then speak 'em:
What are they? Came ye to her window here
To learn 'em now? Castalio, have a care;
Use honest dealing with a 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.
You say you've reasons: why are they conceal'd?
Cas. To-morrow I may tell you.
Pol. Why not now?
Cas. It is a matter of such consequence,
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?
Cas. It seems you've watch'd me, then?
Pol. I scorn the office.
Cas. Pr'ythee avoid a thing thou may'st repent.
Pol. That is, henceforward making league with you.
Cas. Nay, if ye're angry, Polydore, good night.[exit.
Pol. Good night, Castalio, if ye're in such haste.
He little thinks I've overheard th' 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 may'st in time expect preferment. Canst thou
Pretend to secresy, cajole and flatter
Thy master's follies, and assist his pleasures?
Page. My lord, I could do any thing 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 employ'd.
Go to my brother, he's in his 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 sent you there to know his pleasure,
Whether he'll hunt to-morrow.
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 employ'd again.
Page. Doubt not, my lord: he has been always kind
To me; would often set me on his knee,
Then give me sweetmeats, call me pretty boy,
And ask me what the maids talk'd of at nights.
Pol. Run quickly then, and prosp'rous be thy wishes.
Here I'm alone, and fit for mischief.[exit Page.
I heard the sign she order'd him to give.
"Just three soft strokes against the chamber door;
But speak not the least word, for, if you should,
It's surely heard, and we are both betray'd."
Blest heav'ns, 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.
Flo. [At the window.] Who's there?
Pol. 'Tis I.
Flo. My lord Castalio?
Pol. The same.
How does my love, my dear Monimia?
Flo. Oh!
She wonders much at your unkind delay;
You've staid 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 open'd.
[Florella withdraws.
Now boast, Castalio, triumph now, and tell
Thyself strange stories of a promis'd bliss![exit.
Re-enter Castalio and Page.
Page. Indeed, my lord, 'twill be a lovely morning:
Pray, let us hunt.
Cas. 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.
Cas. No, my kind boy.
Good night: commend me to my brother.
Page. Oh!
You never heard the last new song I learn'd;
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.
Cas. You must be whipp'd, youngster,
if you get such songs as those are.
What means this boy's impertinence to-night?[aside.
Page. Why, what must I sing, pray, my dear lord?
Cas. Psalms, child, psalms.
Page. O dear me! boys that go to school learn psalms;
But pages, that are better bred, sing lampoons.
Cas. Well, leave me; I'm weary.
Page. Indeed, my lord, I can't abide to leave you.
Cas. Why, wert thou instructed to attend me?
Page. No, no, indeed, my lord, I was not.
But I know what I know.
Cas. What dost thou know?——'Sdeath! what can all this mean?
[aside.
Page. Oh! I know who loves somebody.
Cas. What's that to me, boy?
Page. Nay, I know who loves you too.
Cas. That's a wonder! pr'ythee, tell it me.
Page. 'Tis—'tis—I know who—but will
You give me the horse, then?
Cas. 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 abed, man.
Cas. Talk'd 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 look with her eyes!
Cas. Hark! what's that noise?
Take this; be gone, and leave me.
You knave, you little flatterer, get you gone.[ex. Page.
Surely it was a noise, hist!——only fancy;
For all is hush'd, as nature were retir'd.
'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.[knocks.
She hears me not? sure, she already sleeps!
Her wishes could not brook so long delay,
And her poor heart has beat itself to rest.[knocks.
Once more——
Flo. [at the window] Who's there,
That comes thus rudely to disturb our rest?
Cas. 'Tis I.
Flo. Who are you? what's your name?
Cas. Suppose the lord Castalio.
Flo. I know you not.
The lord Castalio has no business here.
Cas. 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.
Flo. Whoe'er you are, you may repent this outrage:
My lady must not be disturb'd. Good night!
Cas. She must! tell her, she shall; go, I'm in haste,
And bring her tidings from the state of love.
Flo. Sure the man's mad!
Cas. 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!
Flo. My lady's answer is, you may depart.
She says she knows you: you are Polydore,
Sent by Castalio, as you were to-day,
T'affront and do her violence again.
Cas. I'll not believe't.
Flo. You may, sir.
Cas. Curses blast thee!
Flo. Well, 'tis a fine cool ev'ning! and I hope
May cure the raging fever in your blood!
Good night.
Cas. And farewell all that's just in woman!
This is contriv'd, a study'd trick, to abuse
My easy nature, and torment my mind!
'Tis impudence to think my soul will bear it!
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 th' inconstant sex.
Faithless Monimia! O Monimia!
Enter Ernesto.
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.
Cas. Who's there?
Ern. Castalio!—My lord, why in this posture,
Stretch'd on the ground? your honest, true, old servant,
Your poor Ernesto, cannot see you thus.
Rise, I beseech you.
Cas. Oh, 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, pleas'd you in your pleasures,
And sought an early share in your affection.
Do not discard me now, but let me serve you.
Cas. Thou canst not serve me.
Ern. Why?
Cas. Because my thoughts
Are full of woman; thou, poor wretch, art past them.
Ern. I hate the sex.
Cas. 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 betray'd 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 long'd to go astray:
Some foolish new adventure needs must prove,
And the first devil she saw, she chang'd her love:
To his temptations lewdly she inclin'd
Her soul, and for an apple damn'd mankind.[exeunt.

ACT THE FOURTH.

SCENE I. A CHAMBER.
Enter Castalio.
Cas. Wish'd 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.
There's no condition sure so curs'd as mine——
Monimia! O Monimia!
Enter Monimia and Florella.
Mon. I come!
I fly to my ador'd Castalio's arms,
My wishes' lord. May every morn begin
Like this; and, with our days, our loves renew!
Cas. Oh——
Mon. Art thou not well, Castalio? Come, lean
Upon my breast, and tell me where's thy pain.
Cas. 'Tis here—'tis in my head—'tis in my heart—
'Tis every where: it rages like a madness,
And I most wonder how my reason holds.
No more, Monimia, of your sex's arts:
They're useless all—I'm not that pliant tool;
I know my charter better——I am man,
Obstinate man, and will not be enslav'd!
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.
Cas. 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;
Nay, if I've any too, thou shalt be made
Subservient to my looser pleasures;
For thou hast wrong'd Castalio.
Mon. 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!——
Cas. Away!——Last night! last night!——
Mon. It was our wedding night.
Cas. No more!—Forget it!
Mon. Why! do you then repent?
Cas. I do.
Mon. O heaven!
And will you leave me thus?—Help! help! Florella!
[Castalio drags her to the door, breaks from her, and exit.
Help me to hold this yet lov'd, cruel man!
Castalio!—Oh! how often has he sworn,
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!
False as the wind, the waters, 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 belov'd 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 the following truth.
Mon. Indeed, Chamont,
There's nothing in it but the fault of nature:
I'm often thus seiz'd 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 conceal'd my soul from you before:
Bear with me now, and search my wounds no further;
For every probing pains me to the heart.
Cham. 'Tis sign there's danger in't, and must be prob'd.
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!
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. 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 us'd
From a dear friend—from one that has my soul
A slave, and therefore treats it like a tyrant.
Cham. I will be calm.—But has Castalio wrong'd 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 last, I'm sure must break my heart.
Cham. What has he done?
Mon. Most barbarously us'd me.
Just as 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 begg'd to know the cause,
He dragg'd 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.
Cham. What! throw thee from him?
Mon. Yes, indeed, he did!
Cham. So may this arm
Throw him to th' earth, like a dead dog despis'd.
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 conceal'd?
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.
Acas. Sure some ill fate is tow'rds me; in my house
I only meet with oddness and disorder.
Just this very moment
I met Castalio too——
Cham. Then you met a villain.
Acas. Ha!
Cham. Yes, a villain!
Acas. 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!
Acas. 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 us'd? I scorn to upbraid thee, boy!
But I could put thee in remembrance——
Cham. Do.
Acas. 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?
Acas. Why dost thou ask it?
Cham. 'Twas the rude o'erflowing
Of too much passion—Pray, my lord, forgive me.[kneels.
Acas. 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.
Acas. I will; but henceforth pr'ythee be more kind.
Whence came the cause?[raises him.
Cham. Indeed, I've been to blame;
For you've been my father—
You've been her father too.[takes Monimia's hand.
Acas. 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 nipp'd; and with a careful, loving hand,
Transplanted her into your own fair garden,
Where the sun always shines: there long she flourish'd;
Grew sweet to sense, and lovely to the eye;
Till at the last a cruel spoiler came,
Cropp'd this fair rose, and rifled all its sweetness,
Then cast it like a loathsome weed away.
Acas. 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 or ornament. Be plain.
Cham. Your son——
Acas. I've two; and both, I hope, have honour.
Cham. I hope so too; but——
Acas. Speak.
Cham. I must inform you,
Once more, Castalio——
Acas. Still Castalio!
Cham. Yes;
Your son Castalio has wrong'd Monimia!
Acas. Ha! wrong'd her?
Cham. Marry'd her.
Acas. 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.
Acas. I'll not deny't.
Cham. You dare not; by the gods,
You dare not. All your family combin'd
In one damn'd falsehood, to outdo Castalio,
Dare not deny't.
Acas. How has Castalio wrong'd her?
Cham. Ask that of him. I say, my sister's wrong'd:
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.
Acas. 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.[exit.
Acas. Farewell, proud boy.—
Monimia!
Mon. My lord.
Acas. You are my daughter.
Mon. I am, my lord, if you'll vouchsafe to own me.
Acas. 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 abandon'd to my fortune,
Thrust out, a naked wand'rer 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.[sits down.
Enter Polydore.
Pol. Monimia weeping!
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 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 curs'd 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. What meant my lord?
Last night?
Pol. Is that a question now to be demanded?
Mon. Was it well done
T' assault my lodging at the dead of night,
And threaten me if I deny'd admittance——
You said you were Castalio.
Pol. By those eyes,
It was the same: I spent my time much better.
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 that soft bosom
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 concern'd,
To tell me, Polydore, and tell me truly,
Where did you rest last night?
Pol. Within thy arms.
Mon. 'Tis done.[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 surpris'd anon;
And consequently all must be betrayed.
Monimia!—she breathes!—Monimia!
Mon. Well——
Let mischiefs multiply! let every hour
Of my loath'd life yield me increase of horror!
O let the sun, to these unhappy eyes,
Ne'er shine again, but be eclips'd 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. O Polydore! if all
The friendship e'er you vow'd to good Castalio
Be not a falsehood; if you ever lov'd
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?
Mon. I am Castalio's wife!
Pol. His marry'd, wedded, wife?
Mon. Yesterday's sun
Saw it perform'd!
Pol. My brother's wife?
Mon. As surely as we both
Must taste of misery, that guilt is thine.
Pol. Oh! thou may'st 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 sin upon my wretched head!
Wouldst thou again have me betray thy brother,
And bring pollution to his arms?—Curs'd thought!
Oh! when shall I be mad indeed![exit.
Pol. Then thus I'll go;—
Full of my guilt, distracted where to roam:
I'll find some place where adders nest in winter,
Loathsome and venomous; where poisons hang
Like gums against the walls: there I'll inhabit,
And live up to the height of desperation.
Desire shall languish like a with'ring flower,
Horrors shall fright me from those pleasing harms,
And I'll no more be caught with beauty's charms.[exit.