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?