Together, you know where. My lord, indeed it is.
Čast. 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 Eknee, 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.

you

Page. It is my lady Momimia, look you; but don't 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 the 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 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,

Once more

[Knocks again.

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

And bring her tidings from the State of Love;
They're all in consulation 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
Good-night.

your

blood.

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, For all her future uses. Death and torment ! 'Tis impudence to think my soul will bear it. Oh! I could grow even wild, and tear my hair! 'Tis well, Monimia, that thy empire's short; Let but to-morrow, but to-morrow come, And try if all thy arts appease my wrongs; "Till when, be this detested place my bed,

[Lies down.

Where I will ruminate on women's ills,
Laugh at myself, and curse the inconstant sex.

Cast. Then I'm thy friend, Ernesto. [Rises. 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.

your affection:

SCENE I.- A Saloon.

ACASTO solus.

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.

Acast. Have you yet seen Castalio to-day?
Pol. My lord, 'tis arly day; he's hardly risen.
Acast. Go, call him up, and meet me in the
chapel.
[Exit POLYDORE.

I cannot think all has gone well to-night;
For as I waking lay (and sure my sense

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've 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't 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.

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're useless all. I'm 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't: indeed my nature's

easy;

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

Beyond your will: for that shall be my law;
Indeed I will not.

Cast. Nay, you shall not, madam;

By yon bright heaven you shall not. All the day
I'll play the tyrant, and at night forsake thee;
'Till by afflictions, and continued cares,
I've worn thee to a homely household drudge.
Nay, if I've any too, thou shalt be made
Subservient to my looser pleasures,
For thou hast wronged Castalio.

Mon. No more;

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!

Cust. 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!

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; my Castalio's false.

For

Maid. Unhappy day!

disturbs you?

What! only answer me with tears? Castalio! Nay, now they stream;

Cruel, unkind Castalio! Is't 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,

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 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.

Methinks, it is a part of me, that suffers.

Mon. Oh, shouldst thou know the cause of my lamenting,

Thou wouldst 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 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,
Prithee have charity and pity for me?
Let me enjoy this thought.

Cha. 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?
Cha. Secret as the grave.

Mon. But when I have 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,

Cha. 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 trem-
bling

With expectation of a horrid tale.
Mon. Oh! could you think it!
Cha. What?

Mon. I fear he'll kill me.
Cha. Ha!

Mon. Indeed I do; he's strangely cruel to me; Which, if it last, I'm sure must break my heart. Cha. What has he done?

Mon. Most barbarously used me. Nothing so kind as he, when in my arms!

probed.

Not to be thought again, the night was wasted;

Dash thee disdainfully away? with scorn?

Mon. He did! and more, I fear, will ne'er be friends,

Though I still love him with unbated passion.
Cha. What, throw thee from him!
Mon. Yes, indeed he did.

Cha. So may this arm
Throw him to the earth, like a dead dog despised!
Lameness and leprosy, blindness and lunacy,
Poverty, shame, pride, and the name of villain,
Light on me, if, Castalio, I forgive thee!

Mon. Nay, now, Chamont, art thou unkind as he is!

Didst thou not promise me thou wouldst be calm?

Keep my disgrace concealed? Why shouldst thou kill him?

By all my love, this arm should do him vengeance.
Alas! I love him still, and though I ne'er
Clasp him again within these longing arms,
Yet bless him, bless him, gods! where'er he goes.
Enter ACASTO.

Acast. Sure some ill fate is towards me; in my house

I only meet with oddness and disorder;
Each vassal has a wild distracted face,

And looks as full of business as a blockhead
In times of danger. Just this very moment
I met Castalio-

Cha. Then you met a villain.

Acust. Ha!

Cha. Yes, a villain.

Acast. Have a care, young soldier,

How thou'rt too busy with Acasto's fame.

I have a sword, my arm's good old acquaintance; Villain to thee!

Cha. Curse on thy scandalous age,
Which hinders me to rush upon thy throat,
And tear the root up of that cursed bramble!
Acast. Ungrateful ruffian! sure my good old
friend

Was ne'er thy father; nothing of him is in thee.
What have I done in my unhappy age,
To be thus used? I scorn to upbraid thee, boy;
But I could put thee in remembrance-

Cha. Do.

Acast. I scorn it

Cha. No, I'll calmly hear the story, For I would fain know all, to see which scale Weighs most-Ha! is not that good old Acasto? What have I done? Can you forgive this folly?

But I'll learn better; for you've been my father.

You have been her father too

[Takes MON. by the hand. Acast. Forbear the prologueAnd let me know the substance of thy tale.

Cha. 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,
Cropt 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 am no wordy man;
Fine speeches are the instruments of knaves,
Of fools, that use them, when they want good
sense;

Your son Castalio has wronged Monimia.

Acast. Ha! wronged her?

Cha. Married her.

Acast. I am sorry for it.
Cha. Why sorry?

By yon blest heaven, there's not a lord
But might be proud to take her to his heart!
Acast. I'll not deny it.

Cha. You dare not! By the gods you dare not ; All your family combined

In one damned falsehood to outdo Castalio,
Dare not deny it.

Acast. How has Castalio wronged her?
Cha. Ask that of him. "I say, my sister's
wronged:

Monimia, my sister, born as high
And noble as Castalio-Do her justice,
Or, by the gods, I'll lay a scene of blood,
Shall make this dwelling horrible to nature.
I'll do't. Hark you, my lord! your son Castalio;