No woman can appease, nor man provoke? Acas. I guess, Chamont, you come to seek Castalio?

Cham. I come to seek the husband of Monimia.

Cas. The slave is here.

Cham. I thought ere now to have found you Atoning for the ills you've done Chamont: For you have wrong'd the dearest part of him. Monimia, young lord, weeps in this heart; And all the tears thy injuries have drawn From her poor eyes, are drops of blood from hence.

Cas. Then you are Chamont?

Cham. Yes, and I hope no stranger

To great Castalio.

Cas. I've heard of such a man,

That has been very busy with my honour.
I own I'm much indebted to you, Sir,
And here return the villain back again
You sent me by my father.

Cham. Thus I'll thank you.

[Draws. Acas. By this good sword, who first presumes to violence,

Makes me his foe. [Draws and interposes. Cas. Sir, in my younger years with care you taught me

That brave revenge was due to injur'd honour: Oppose not then the justice of my sword, Lest you should make me jealous of your love. Cham. Into thy father's arms thou fly'st for safety,

Because thou know'st that place is sanctified With the remembrance of an ancient friend

ship.

Cas. I am a villain, if I will not seek thee, Till I may be reveng'd for all the wrongs Done me by that ungrateful fair thou plead'st

for.

Cham. She wrong'd thee? By the fury in my heart,

Thy father's honour's not above Monimia's; Nor was thy mother's truth and virtue fairer. Acas. Boy, don't disturb the ashes of the dead

With thy capricious follies; the remembrance Of the lov'd creature that once fill'd these

Acas. Pr'ythee, forgive her.

Cas. Lightnings first shall blast me!

I tell you, were she prostrate at my feet,
Full of her sex's best dissembled sorrows
And all that wondrous beauty of her own,
My heart might break, but it should never
soften.

Acas. Did you but know the agonies she feels

She flies with fury over all the house; Through every room of each department, crying,

"Where's my Castalio? Give me my Castalio!" Except she sees you, sure she'll grow dis

tracted!

Cas. Ha! will she? Does she name Castalio? Conduct me And with such tenderness? To the poor, lovely mourner. [quickly Acas. Then wilt thou go? Blessings attend thy purpose!

Cas. I cannot hear Monimia's soul's in sad

SCENE II-A Chamber.
Enter MONIMIA.

Mon. Stand off, and give me room;

I will not rest till I have found Castalio.
My wish's lord, comely as the rising day.
I cannot die in peace, till I have seen him.
Enter CASTALIO.

Cas. Who talks of dying, with a voice so [sweet That life's in love with it?

And art thou but the shadow of Monimia :
Why dost thou fly me thus?

Mon. Oh! were it possible that we could drown

In dark oblivion but a few past hours,
We might be happy.

Cas. Is't then so hard, Monimia, to forgive A fault, when humble love, like mine, implores thee?

For I must love thee, though it proves my ruin.

I'll kneel to thee, and weep a flood before thee.
Yet pr'ythee, tyrant, break not quite my heart;
But when my task of penitence is done,
Heal it again, and comfort me with love.

Mon. If I am dumb, Castalio, and want words

To pay thee back this mighty tenderness,
It is because I look on thee with horror,
And cannot see the man I have so wrong'd.
Cas. Thou hast not wrong'd me.
Mon. Ah! alas, thou talk'st

Just as thy poor heart thinks. Have not I wrong'd thee?

Cus. No.

Mon. Still thou wander'st in the dark, Castalio;

But wilt, ere long, stumble on horrid danger.
Cas. My better angel, then do thou inform me
What danger threatens me, and where it lies;
Why wert thou (pr'ythee, smile, and tell me
why)

When I stood waiting underneath the window,
Deaf to my cries, and senseless of my pains?
Mon. Did I not beg thee to forbear i quiry?
Read'st thou not something in my face, that
speaks
[me?
Wonderful change, and horror from within
Cas. If, lab'ring in the pangs of death,
Thou wouldst do any thing to give me ease,
Untold this riddle ere my thoughts grow wild,
And let in fears of ugly form upon me.

Mon. My heart wont let me speak it; but remember,

Monimia, poor Monimia, tells you this:
We ne'er must meet again-

Cas. Ne'er meet again?

Mon. No, never.

Cas. Where's the power

On earth, that dares not look like thee, and say so?

Thou art my heart's inheritance: I serv'd
A long and faithful slavery for thee;
And who shall rob me of the dear-bought
blessing?

Mon. Time will clear all; but now let this content you: [solv'd Heaven has decreed, and therefore I've re(With torment I must tell it thee, Castalio) Ever to be a stranger to thy love,

In some far distant country waste my life,
And from this day to see thy face no more.
Cas. Why turn'st thou from me? I'm alone
already.

Methinks I stand upon a naked beach,
Sighing to winds, and to the seas complaining,
Whilst afar off the vessel sails away,
Where all the treasure of my soul's embark'd;
Wilt thou not turn?-Oh! could those eyes

but speak,

I should know all, for love is pregnant in 'em ;

|

They swell, they press their beams upon me still:

Wilt thou not speak? If we must part for ever, Give me but one kind word to think upon, And please myself withal, whilst my heart's breaking.

Mon. Ah! poor Castalio!

[Exit. Cas. What means all this? Why all t.is stir to plague

A single wretch? If but your word can shake
This world to atoms, why so much ado
With me? think me but dead, and lay me so.

Enter POLYDOre.

Castalio!

Cas. Stand off; thou hot-brain'd, boisterous, noisy, ruffian!

And leave me to my sorrows.

Chan. By the love

I bore her living, I will ne'er forsake her; But here remain till my heart burst with sobbing.

Cas. vanish, I charge thee! or

[Draws a dagger. Cham. Thou canst not kill me! [ture! That would be a kindness, and against thy naAcas. What means Castalio! Sure thou wilt not pull

More sorrows on thy aged father's head!
Tell me, I beg you, tell me the sad cause
Of all this ruin.

Cas. Thou, unkind Chamont,
Unjustly hast pursu'd me with thy hate,
And sought the life of him that never wrong'd
thee:

Now, if thou wilt embrace a noble vengeance, Come join with me, and curse

Cham. What?

Acas. Have patience.

Cas. Patience! preach it to the winds, To roaring seas, or raging fires! for, curs'd As I am now, 'tis this must give me patience: Thus I find rest, and shall complain no more. [Stabs himself. Chamont, to thee my birthright I bequeath: Comfort my mourning father-heal his griefs; ACASTO faints into the arms of a Servant. For I perceive they fall with weight upon

him

And, for Monimia's sake, whom thou wilt find I never wrong'd, be kind to poor SerinaNow all I beg is, lay me in one grave Thus with my love: farewell! I now am nothing. [Dies. Cham. Take care of good Acasto, whilst I go To search the means by which the fates have plagu'd us. [tain: "Tis thus that heaven its empire does mainIt may afflict; but man must not complain. [Exeunt.

PROLOGUE.

To you, great judges, in this writing age,
The sons of wit, and patrons of the stage,
With all those humble thoughts, which still
have sway'd

His pride much doubting, trembling and afraid
Of what is to his want of merit due,
And aw'd by every excellence in you,

And spare those many faults you needs must find.

You, to whom wit a common foe is grown,
The thing ye scorn and publicly disown.
Though now, perhaps, ye're here for other
ends,

He swears to me ye ought to be his friends:
For he ne'er call'd ye yet insipid tools,
Nor wrote one line to tell ye you were fools;
But says of wit ye have so large a store,
So very much you never will have more.
He ne'er with libel treated yet the town,
The names of honest men bedaub'd and shown.
Nay, never once lampoon'd the harmless life
Of suburb virgin, or of city wife.
Satire's th' effect of poetry's disease,
Which, sick of a lewd age, she vents for ease,
But now her only strife should be to please;
Since of ill fate the baneful cloud's withdrawn,
And happiness again begins to dawn,
Since back with joy and triumph he is come,
That always drew fears hence, ne'er brought
'em home.

Oft has he plough'd the boist'rous ocean o'er,
Yet ne'er more welcome to the longing shore,
Not when he brought home victories before;
For then fresh laurels flourish'd on his brow;
And he comes crown'd with olive-branches

You've seen one orphan ruin'd here; and I
May be the next, if old Acasto die:
Should it prove so, I'd fain amongst you find
Who 'tis would to the fatherless be kind,
To whose protection might I safely go?
Is there among you no good nature? No.
What shall I do? Should I the godly seek,
And go a conventicling twice a week?
Quit the lewd stage, and its profane pollution,
Affect each form and saint-like institution;
So draw the brethren all to contribution?
Or shall I (as I guess the poet may
Within these three days) fairly run away?
No; to some city lodgings I'll retire;
Seem very grave, and privacy desire;
Till I am thought some heiress, rich in lands,
Fled to escape a cruel guardian's hands;
Which may produce a story worth the telling,
Of the next sparks that go a fortune stealing.