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 him dead, 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.