ACT THE FIFTH.

SCENE I. A GARDEN.
Castalio discovered lying on the ground; soft music.
Cas. See where the deer trot after one another;
No discontent they know; but in delightful
Wildness and freedom, pleasant springs, fresh herbage,
Calm arbours, 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.
Acas. Castalio! Castalio!
Cas. Who's there
So wretched but to name Castalio?
Acas. I hope my message may succeed.
Cas. My father!
'Tis joy to see you, though where sorrow's nourish'd.
Acas. Castalio, you must go along with me,
And see Monimia.
Cas. Sure my lord but mocks me:
Go see Monimia?
Acas. I say, no more dispute.
Complaints are made to me that you have wrong'd her.
Cas. Who has complain'd?
Acas. Her brother to my face proclaim'd her wrong'd,
And in such terms they've warm'd me.
Cas. What terms? Her brother! Heaven!
Where learn'd he that?
What, does she send her hero with defiance?
He durst not sure affront you?
Acas. No, not much:
But——
Cas. Speak, what said he?
Acas. That thou wert a villain:
Methinks I would not have thee thought a villain.
Cas. Shame on the ill-manner'd brute!
Your age secur'd him; he durst not else have said.
Acas. By my sword,
I would not see thee wrong'd, and bear it vilely:
Though I have pass'd my word she shall have justice.
Cas. Justice! to give her justice would undo her.
Think you this solitude I now have chosen,
Wish'd to have grown one piece
With this cold day, and all without a cause?
Enter Chamont.
Cham. Where is the hero, famous and renown'd
For wronging innocence, and breaking vows;
Whose mighty spirit, and whose stubborn heart,
No woman can appease, nor man provoke?
Acas. I guess, Chamont, you come to seek Castalio?
Cham. I come to seek the husband of Monimia.
Cas. The slave is here.
Cham. I thought ere now to have found you
Atoning for the ills you've done Chamont:
For you have wrong'd 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.
Cas. Then you are Chamont?
Cham. Yes, and I hope no stranger
To great Castalio.
Cas. 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.
Acas. By this good sword, who first presumes to violence,
Makes me his foe.[draws and interposes.
Cas. Sir, in my younger years with care you taught me
That brave revenge was due to injur'd 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 fly'st for safety,
Because thou know'st that place is sanctify'd
With the remembrance of an ancient friendship.
Cas. I am a villain, if I will not seek thee,
Till I may be reveng'd for all the wrongs
Done me by that ungrateful fair thou plead'st for.
Cham. She wrong'd 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.
Acas. Boy, don't disturb the ashes of the dead
With thy capricious follies; the remembrance
Of the lov'd creature that once fill'd these arms——
Cham. Has not been wrong'd.
Cas. 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 oppress'd by thee, thou proud, imperious traitor!
Cas. Ha! set me free.
Cham. Come, both.
Cas. 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.[exit.
Acas. Would I'd been absent when this boist'rous brave
Came to disturb thee thus. I'm griev'd I hinder'd
Thy just resentment——But, Monimia——
Cas. Damn her!
Acas. Don't curse her.
Cas. Did I?
Acas. Yes.
Cas. I'm sorry for't.
Acas. Methinks, if, as I guess, the fault's but small,
It might be pardon'd.
Cas. No.
Acas. What has she done?
Cas. That she's my wife, may heaven and you forgive me.
Acas. Be reconcil'd then.
Cas. No.
Acas. For my sake,
Castalio, and the quiet of my age.
Cas. Why will you urge a thing my nature starts at?
Acas. Pr'ythee, forgive her.
Cas. 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.
Acas. Did you but know the agonies she feels—
She flies with fury over all the house;
Through every room of each department, crying,
"Where's my Castalio! Give me my Castalio!"
Except she sees you, sure she'll grow distracted!
Cas. Ha! will she? Does she name Castalio?
And with such tenderness? Conduct me quickly
To the poor lovely mourner.
Acas. Then wilt thou go? Blessings attend thy purpose!
Cas. I cannot hear Monimia's soul's in sadness,
And be a man: my heart will not forget her.
Acas. Delay not then; but haste and cheer thy love.
Cas. 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 CHAMBER.
Enter Monimia.
Mon. Stand off, and give me room;
I will not rest till I have found Castalio,
My wish's lord, comely as the rising day.
I cannot die in peace till I have seen him.
Enter Castalio.
Cas. Who talks of dying, with a voice so sweet
That life's in love with it?
Mon. Hark! 'tis he that answers.
Where art thou?
Cas. Here, my love.
Mon. No nearer, lest I vanish.
Cas. 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.
Cas. Is't then so hard, Monimia, to forgive
A fault, when humble love, like mine, implores thee?
For I must love thee, though it prove my ruin.
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 have so wrong'd.
Cas. Thou hast not wrong'd me.
Mon. Ah! alas, thou talk'st
Just as thy poor heart thinks. Have not I wrong'd thee?
Cas. No.
Mon. Still thou wander'st in the dark, Castalio;
But wilt, ere long, stumble on horrid danger.
Cas. My better angel, then do thou inform me
What danger threatens me, and where it lies;
Why wert thou (pr'ythee, smile, and tell me why)
When I stood waiting underneath the window,
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?
Cas. If, lab'ring in the pangs of death,
Thou wouldst do any thing 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——
Cas. Ne'er meet again?
Mon. No, never.
Cas. Where's the power
On earth, that dares not look like thee, and say so?
Thou art my heart's inheritance: I serv'd
A long and 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 resolv'd
(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.
Cas. 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 embark'd;
Wilt thou not turn?—Oh! could those eyes but speak,
I should know all, for love is pregnant in 'em;
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.
Cas. 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.
Cas. Who's there?
Pol. Why, what art thou?
Cas. My brother Polydore?
Pol. My name is Polydore.
Cas. Canst thou inform me——
Pol. Of what?
Cas. Of my Monimia?
Pol. No. Good day!
Cas. In haste!
Methinks my Polydore appears in sadness.
Pol. Indeed! and so to me does my Castalio.
Cas. Do I?
Pol. Thou dost.
Cas. Alas, I've wondrous reason!
I'm strangely alter'd, brother, since I saw thee.
Pol. Why?
Cas. I'll tell thee, Polydore; I would repose
Within thy friendly bosom all my follies;
For thou wilt pardon 'em, because they're mine.
Pol. Be not too credulous; consider first,
Friends may be false. Is there no friendship false?
Cas. 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.
Cas. 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 vow'd together.
Hast thou dealt so by me?
Cas. I hope I have.
Pol. Then tell me why, this morning, this disorder?
Cas. 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 any thing which he's asham'd to tell me.
Cas. Oh, much too oft. Our destiny contriv'd
To plague us both with one unhappy love!
Thou, like a friend, a constant, gen'rous friend,
In its first pangs didst trust me with thy passion,
Whilst I still smooth'd my pain with smiles before thee,
And made a contract I ne'er meant to keep.
Pol. How!
Cas. 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?
Cas. 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?
Cas. How my heart throbs!
Pol. First, for thy friendship, traitor,
I cancel't thus: after this day I'll ne'er
Hold trust or converse with the false Castalio!
This, witness, heaven.
Cas. What will my fate do with me?
I've lost all happiness, and know not why!
What means this, brother?
Pol. Perjur'd, treach'rous wretch,
Farewell!
Cas. I'll be thy slave, and thou shalt use me
Just as thou wilt, do but forgive me.
Pol. Never.
Cas. 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 employ'd our thoughts.
Whene'er had I a friend that was not Polydore's,
Or Polydore a foe that was not mine?
E'en in the womb we embrac'd; and wilt thou now,
For the first fault, abandon and forsake me?
Leave me, amidst afflictions, to myself,
Plung'd 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.
Cas. What arts?
Pol. Blind wretch! thou husband? there's a question!
Is she not a——
Cas. What?
Pol. Whore? I think that word needs no explaining.
Cas. Alas! I can forgive e'en this to thee;
But let me tell thee, Polydore, I'm griev'd
To find thee guilty of such low revenge,
To wrong that virtue which thou couldst not ruin.
Pol. It seems I lie, then!
Cas. Should the bravest man
That e'er wore conq'ring 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!
Cas. A base-born villain!
Pol. Yes! thou never cam'st
From old Acasto's loins: the midwife put
A cheat upon my mother; and, instead
Of a true brother, in the cradle by me
Plac'd some coarse peasant's cub, and thou art he!
Cas. Thou art my brother still.
Pol. Thou liest!
Cas. Nay, then——[draws.
Yet, I am calm.
Pol. A coward's always so.
Cas. Ah!—ah!—that stings home! Coward!
Pol. Ay, base-born coward! villain!
Cas. This to thy heart, then, though my mother bore thee!
[they fight; Polydore runs on Castalio's sword.
Pol. Now my Castalio is again my friend.
Cas. What have I done? my sword is in thy breast.
Pol. So would I have it be, thou best of men,
Thou kindest brother, and thou truest friend!
Cas. Ye gods! we're taught that all your works are justice:
Ye're painted merciful, and friends to innocence:
If so, then why these plagues upon my head?
Pol. Blame not the heav'ns, 'tis Polydore has wrong'd thee;
I've stain'd thy bed; thy spotless marriage joys
Have been polluted by thy brother's lust.
Cas. By thee?
Pol. By me, last night, the horrid deed
Was done, when all things slept but rage and incest.
Cas. Now, where's Monimia? Oh!
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!
Cas. Ay, brother's blood!
Art thou prepar'd for everlasting pains?
Pol. Oh! let me charge thee, by th' eternal justice,
Hurt not her tender life!
Cas. Not kill her?
Mon. That task myself have finish'd: 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's innocent.
Cas. Tell me that story,
And thou wilt make a wretch of me, indeed.
Pol. Hadst thou, Castalio, us'd me like a friend,
This ne'er had happen'd; hadst thou let me know
Thy marriage, we had all now met in joy:
But, ignorant of that,
Hearing th' appointment made, enrag'd to think
Thou hadst undone 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, deceiv'd Monimia,
Embrac'd, caress'd, and call'd me her Castalio.[dies.
Mon. Now, my Castalio, the most dear of men,
Wilt thou receive pollution to thy bosom,
And close the eyes of one that has betray'd you?
Cas. O, I'm the unhappy wretch, whose cursed fate
Has weigh'd you down into destruction with him:
Why then thus kind to me!
Mon. When I'm laid low i'th' grave, and quite forgotten,
May'st 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 hand already),
Speak well of me: and if thou find ill tongues
Too busy with my fame, don't hear me wrong'd;
'Twill be a noble justice to the memory
Of a poor wretch, once honour'd with thy love.[dies.
Enter Chamont and Acasto.
Cham. Gape, earth, and swallow me to quick destruction,
If I forgive your house!
Ye've overpower'd me now!
But, hear me, heav'n!—Ah! here's a scene of death!
My sister, my Monimia, breathless!——Now,
Ye powers above, if ye have justice, strike!
Strike bolts through me, and through the curs'd Castalio!
Cas. Stand off; thou hot-brain'd, 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.
Cas. Vanish, I charge thee! or—[draws a dagger.
Cham. Thou canst not kill me!
That would be a kindness, and against thy nature!
Acas. What means Castalio? Sure thou wilt not pull
More sorrows on thy aged father's head!
Tell me, I beg you, tell me the sad cause
Of all this ruin.
Cas. Thou, unkind Chamont,
Unjustly hast pursu'd me with thy hate,
And sought the life of him that never wrong'd thee:
Now, if thou wilt embrace a noble vengeance,
Come join with me, and curse——
Cham. What?
Acas. Have patience.
Cas. Patience! preach it to the winds,
To roaring seas, or raging fires! for, curs'd
As I am now, 'tis this must give me patience:
Thus I find, rest, and shall complain no more.[stabs himself.
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 wrong'd, 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 plagu'd us.
'Tis thus that heav'n its empire does maintain:
It may afflict; but man must not complain.[exeunt.

THE END.

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 sway'd
His pride much doubting, trembling and afraid
Of what is to his want of merit due,
And aw'd by every excellence in you,
The author sends to beg you will 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, ye're here for other ends,
He swears to me ye ought to be his friends:
For he ne'er call'd ye yet insipid tools,
Nor wrote one line to tell ye you 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 bedaub'd and shown.
Nay, never once lampoon'd the harmless life
Of suburb virgin, or of city wife.
Satire's th' 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 drew fears hence, ne'er brought 'em home.
Oft has he plough'd the boist'rous ocean o'er,}
Yet ne'er more welcome to the longing shore,
Not when he brought home victories before;
For then fresh laurels flourish'd on his brow;
And he comes crown'd with olive-branches now;
Receive him—oh, receive him as his friends,
Embrace the blessing which he recommends:
Such quiet as your foes shall ne'er destroy;
Then shake off fears, and clap your hands for joy.

Epilogue.