'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 not I see you part this very moment?

Cast. It seems you have watched me, then?
Pol. I scorn the office.

Cast. Prithee avoid a thing thou mayest repent.

Pol. That is henceforward making leagues with you.

Cast. Nay, if you are angry, Polydore, goodnight. [Exit. Pol. Good-night, Castalio, if you are in such haste.

He little thinks I have overheard the appointment;

But to his chamber's gone to wait a while,
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.
O, 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!

you,

Pretend to secrecy, cajole and flatter
Thy master's follies, and assist his pleasures?
Page. My lord, I could do any thing for
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 should'st not be em-
ployed,

Go to my brother, he is 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 am gone
To bed, and sent you there to know his pleasure,
Whether he will hunt to-morrow. Well said,
Polydore,

Dissemble with thy brother! that's one point.

But do not leave him, till he is in 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 employed again. ¡

[Aside.

To me; would often set me on his knee,
Then give me sweetmeats, call me pretty boy,
And ask me what the maids talked of at nights.
Pol. Run quickly, then, and prosp'rous be thy
[Exit Page

wishes.

Here I am alone, and fit for mischief; now
To cheat this brother, will it be honest that?
I heard the sign she ordered him to give.
O, for the art of Proteus, but to change
The unhappy Polydore to blest Castalio!
She is not so well acquainted with him yet,
But I may fit her arms as well as he.
Then, when I am happily possessed of more
Than sense can think, all loosened into joy,
To hear my disappointed brother come,
And give the unregarded signal; Oh,
What a malicious pleasure will that be!
'Just three soft strokes against the chamber door;
'But speak not the least word, for if you should,
'Tis surely heard, and we are both betrayed.'
How I adore a mistress, that contrives
With care to lay the business of her joys;
One that has wit to charm the very soul,
And give a double relish to delight!

Blest heavens, 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.

[Maid at the window.] Who's there? Pol. 'Tis I.

Maid. My lord Castalio?

Pol. The same.

How does my love, my dear Monimia?
Maid. Oh!

She wonders much at your unkind delay;
You have 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
opened.
[Maid descends.
Now boast, Castalio, triumph now, and tell
Thyself strange stories of a promised bliss.
[The door unbolts.
It opens! Ha! what means my trembling flesh?
Limbs do your office, and support me well;
Bear me to her, then-fail me if you can! [Erit.
Enter CASTALIO and Page,

Page. Indeed, my lord, 'twill be a lovely morning:

Good-night. Commend me to my brother.
Page. Oh!

You never heard the last new song I learned !
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. Cast. You must be whipped, youngster, if you get such songs as those are.

What means this boy's impertinence to-night? Page. What, what must I sing, pray, my dear

lord?

Cast. Psalms, child, psalms.

Page. Oh, dear me! boys that go to school learn psalms:

But pages, that are better bred, sing lampoons. Cast. Well, leave me. I am weary.

Page. Oh! but you promised me, the last time I told you what colour my lady Monimia's stockings were of, and that she gartered them above knee, that you would give me a little horse to go a hunting upon, so you did. I'll tell you no more stories, except you keep your word with me. Cast. Well, go, you trifler, and to-morrow ask

me.

Page. Indeed, my lord, I can't abide to leave you.

Cast. Why, wert thou instructed to attend me? Page. No, no, indeed, my lord, I was not; But I know what I know.

Cast. What dost thou know? Death! what↑
can all this mean?

Page. Oh! I know who loves somebody.
Cast. What's that to me, boy?
Page. Nay, I know who loves you too.
Cast. That's a wonder! prithee tell it me.
Page. "Tis,-'tis-I know who-but will
You give me the horse, then?

Cast. 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 play-things then. I heard her say so, as she lay a-bed, man.

Cast. 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 so look with her eyes; and her breasts did so lift up and down, I could have found in my heart to have beat them, for they made me ashamed.

Cast. Hark! what's that noise?
Take this, begone, and leave me.
You knave, you little flatterer, get you gone!

[Exit Page.

Surely it was a noise! hist-only fancy;
For all is hushed, as Nature were retired,
And the perpetual motion standing still,
So much she from her work appears to cease.
And every warring element's at peace :

All the wild herds are in the coverts couched ;
The fishes to their banks or ouze repaired,
And to the murmurs of the waters sleep;

The feeling air's at rest, and feels no noise,
Except of some soft breeze among the trees,
Rocking the harmless birds that rest upon them.
'Tis now, that, guided by my love, I go
To take possession of my Monimia's charms.
Sure Polydore's by this time gone to bed.
At midnight thus the usurer steals untracked,
To make a visit to his hoarded gold,
And feasts his eyes upon the shining mammon.
[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 again.

Monimia! my angel!-ha!—not yet-
How long's the shortest moment of delay,
To a heart impatient of its pangs like mine,
In sight of ease, and panting to the goal.
[Knocks again.

Once more

Maid. [At the window.] Who's there,
That comes thus rudely to disturb our rest?
Cast. 'Tis I.

Maid. Who are you? What's your name?
Cast. Suppose the lord Castalio.
Maid. I know you not.

The lord Castalio has no business here.

Cast. 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.

Maid. Whoe'er you are, ye may repent this

outrage.

My lady must not be disturbed. Good-night. Cast. She must; tell her she shall. Go, I'm

in haste,

And bring her tidings from the State of Love;
They are all in consultation met together,
How to reward my truth, and crown her vows.
Maid. Sure the man's mad!

Cast. 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!

Maid. My lady's answer is, you may depart.
She says she knows you; you are Polydore,
Sent by Castalio, as you were to-day,
To affront and do her violence again.
Cast. I'll not believe it.
Maid. You may, sir.
Cast. Curses blast thee!

Maid. Well, 'tis a fine cool evening; and, I hope,

May cure the raging fever in your blood.
Good-night.

Cast. And farewell all that's just in women!
This is contrived; a studied trick, to abuse
My easy nature, and torment my mind.

Sure now she's bound me fast, and means to lord

it,

To rein me hard, and ride me at her will, 'Till by degrees she shape me into fool,

Ern. I hate the sex.

[Rises.

Cast. Then I'm thy friend, Ernesto. 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 betrayed the capitol? A woman. Who lost Marc 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 a while in Paradise they lay, But quickly woman longed to go astray; Some foolish, new adventure needs must prove, And the first devil she saw, she changed her love;

To his temptations lewdly she inclined Her soul, and for an apple damned mankind! [Exeunt.

SCENE I-A Saloon.

ACASTO Solus.

Acast. BLEST be the morning, that has brought
me health;

A happy rest has softened pain away,
And I'll forget it, though my mind's not well;
A heavy melancholy clogs my heart;

I droop and sigh, I know not why. Dark dreams,
Sick fancy's children, have been over-busy,
And all the night played farces in my brain.
Methought I heard the midnight raven cry;
Waked with the imagined noise, my curtain
seemed

To start, and at my feet my sons appeared,
Like ghosts, all pale and stiff; I strove to speak,
But could not: suddenly the forms were lost,
And seemed to vanish in a bloody cloud.
'Twas odd, and for the present, shook my
thoughts;

But 'twas the effect of my distempered blood; And, when the health's disturbed, the mind's unruly.

Enter POLYdore.

Good-morning, Polydore.

Pol. Heaven keep your lordship.

chapel.

Acast. Have you yet seen Castalio to-day?
Pol. My lord, 'tis early day; he's hardly risen.
Acast. Go, call him up, and meet me in the
[Exit Polydore.
I cannot think all has gone well to-night;
For as I waking lay (and sure my sense
Was then my own) I thought I heard my son
Castalio's voice; but it seemed low, and mournful;
Under my window, too, I thought I heard it.
My untoward fancy could not be deceived
In every thing, and I will search the truth out.
Enter MONIMIA,

Already up, Monimia! you rose
Thus early, sure, to outshine the day:
Or was there any thing, that crossed your rest?
They were naughty thoughts, that would not let
you sleep.

Mon. Whatever are my thoughts, my lord, I

have learnt

For beauty's heightened in your cheeks, and all Your charms seem up, and ready in your eyes.

Mon. The little share I have's so very mean, That it may easily admit addition; Though you, my lord, should most of all beware To give it too much praise, and make me proud. Acast. Proud of an old man's praises? no, Monimia !

But if my prayers can work thee any good,
Thou shalt not want the largest share of them.
Heard you no noise to-night?

Mon. Noise! my good lord!
Acast. About midnight.

Mon. Indeed, my lord, I don't remember any. Acast. You must, sure! went you early to your rest?

Mon. About the wonted hour. Why this enquiry?

[Aside.

Acast. And went your maid to bed, too?
Mon. My lord, I guess so;

I have seldom known her disobey my orders. Acast. Sure, goblins then, or fairies haunt the dwelling;

I'll have enquiry made through all the house,
But I'll find out the cause of these disorders.
Good-day to thee, Monimia—I'll to chapel.
[Exit Acasto.
Mon. I'll but dispatch some orders to my

woman,

Enter FLORELLA.

And wait upon your lordship there.

I fear the priest has played us false; if so,
My poor Castalio loses all for me;

I wonder though he made such haste to leave me ;
Was it not unkind, Florella? Surely it was!
He scarce afforded one kind parting word,
But went away so cold; the kiss he gave me,
Seemed the forced compliment of sated love.
Would I had never married!

Maid. Why?

Mon. Methinks

The scene's quite altered; I am not the same;
I've bound up for myself a weight of cares,
And how the burden will be borne, none knows,
A husband may be jealous, rigid, false !
And should Castalio e'er prove so to me,
So tender is my heart, so nice my love,
'Twould ruin and distract my rest for ever.
Maid. Madam, he's coming.
Mon. Where, Florella? where?
Is he returning? To my chamber lead;
I'll meet him there; the mysteries of our love
Should be kept private as religious rites,
From the unhallowed view of common eyes.
[Exit Mon. and Maid.

SCENE II-A Chamber.

And distant mountains, where they feed their flocks,

The happy shepherds leave their homely huts,
And with their pipes proclaim the new-born day,
The lusty swain comes with his well-filled scrip
Of healthful viands, which, when hunger calls,
With much content and appetite he eats,
To follow in the fields his daily toil,
And dress the grateful glebe, that yields him
fruits.

The beasts, that under the warm hedges slept,
And weathered out the cold bleak night, are up,
And, looking towards the neighbouring pastures,
raise

Their voice, and bid their fellow brutes good

morrow;

The cheerful birds too, on the tops of trees,
Assemble all in choirs, and with their notes
Salute and welcome up the rising sun.
There's no condition sure so cursed as mine!
I'm married! 'Sdeath! I'm sped. How like a

dog

Looked Hercules, thus to a distaff chained!
Monimia! Oh, Monimia !

Enter MONIMIA and MAID.
Mon. I come,

I fly to my adored Castalio's arms,
My wishes' lord. May every morn begin
Like this; and with our days our loves renew!
Now I may hope you are satisfied-

Cast. I am

[Looking languishingly on him.

Well satisfied, that thou art-Oh—————
Mon. What? speak:

Art thou not well, Castalio? Come, lean
Upon my breast, and tell me where's thy pain.
Cast. '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.
Nay, wonder not, Monimia: the slave,
You thought you had secured within my breast,
Is grown a rebel, and has broke his chain,
And now he walks there like a lord at large.
Mon. Am I not then your wife, your loved
Monimia?

I once was so, or I've most strangely dreamed.
What ails my love?

Cast. Whate'er thy dreams have been, Thy waking thoughts ne'er meant Castalio well. No more, Monimia, of your sex's arts! They are useless all. I am not that pliant tool, That necessary utensil, you would make me; I know my charter better-I am man, Obstinate man; and will not be enslaved.

Mon. You shall not fear it: indeed my nature's
easy;

I'll ever live your most obedient wife!
Nor ever any privilege pretend

Enter CASTALIO.

the plains

VOL. I.

Indeed I will not.

A a

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!

Cast. Away! last night, last night-
Mon. It was our wedding night.
Cast. No more; forget it.

Mon. Why, do you then repent?
Cast. I do.

Mon. O, heaven!

And will you leave me thus? help, help, Florella! [He drags her to the door, breaks from her, and erit.

Help me to hold this yet loved cruel man.
Oh, my heart breaks-I'm dying. Oh-stand
off;

I'll not indulge this woman's weakness; still
Chafed and tormented let my heart swell on,
Till with its injuries it burst, and shake
With the dire blow this prison to the earth.
Maid. What sad mistake has been the cause
of this?

Mon. Castalio! Oh! how often has he swore, 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.

Maid. Unhappy day!

Mon. 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? [Sits down.]

Enter CHAMONT.

Cha. In tears, Monimia !

Mon. Whoe'er thou art,

[Exit Florella.

Leave me alone to my beloved despair.

Cha. 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!

Cha. Yes, Monimia, if thou thinkest
That I deserve the name, I am thy brother.
Mon. Oh, Castalio!

Cha. 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 all the following truth!

Mon. Indeed, Chamont,

There's nothing in it but the fault of nature;
I'm often thus seized suddenly with grief,
I know not why.

Cha. 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?

Cha. Not, if I'd cause to think it was a friend. Mon. Why do you then call this unfaithful dealing?

I ne'er concealed my soul from you before: Bear with me now, and search my wounds no farther;

For

every probing pains me to the heart. Cha. 'Tis sign there's danger in it, and must be probed.

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 it not so?

Mon. I cannot speak! grief flows so fast upon

me,

It choaks, and will not let me tell the cause.
Oh!

Cha. My Monimia, to my soul thou art dear
As honour to my name. Dear as the light
To eyes but just restored, and healed of blind-

ness.

Why wilt thou not repose within my breast The anguish, that torments thee?

Mon. Oh! I dare not.

Cha. 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,

Thou would'st despise the abject, lost Monimia;
I am satisfied, Chamont, that thou wouldst scorn

me;

No more would 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 de-
lights,

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,
Prithee have charity and pity for me!
Let me enjoy this thought.