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—