May well instruct me rage is in his heart, Enter POLYdore. Pol. Monimia weeping! [Sits down. I come, my love, to kiss all sorrow from thee. Let mischiefs multiply! let every hour And grow a curser of the works of nature! The friendship e'er you vow'd to good Castalio What mean these sighs, and why thus beats As I am, in possession of thy sweetness? thy heart? Mon. Let me alone to sorrow; 'tis a cause None e'er shall know; but it shall with me die. Pol. Happy, Monimia, he to whom these sighs, These tears, and all these languishings are paid! I know your heart was never meant for me; That jewel's for an elder brother's price. Mon. My lord! Pol. Nay, wonder not; last night I heard I did, Monimia, and I curs'd the sound. Mon. Banish such fruitless hopes! Mon. Away! what meant my lord Pol. Is that a question now to be demanded? T" assault my lodging at the dead of night, Pol. By those eyes, It was the same: I spent my time much better. Pol. Where is the danger near me? And drown your soul in wretchedness for ever. Will you be kind, and answer me one question? Breathe out the choicest secrets of my heart, Mon. Nay, I'll conjure you, by the gods and By the honour of your name, that's most con cern'd, Mon. Oh! I'm his wife! Pol. My brother's wife? Must taste of misery, that guilt is thine. Happy, with such a weight upon thy soul? Pol. It may be yet a secret.—I'll go try To reconcile and bring Castalio to thee! Whilst from the world I take myself away, And waste my life in penance for my sin. Mon. Then thou wouldst more undo me: Of added sins upon my wretched head! Oh! when shall I be mad indeed! [Exil. Full of my guilt, distracted where to roam: CASTALIO ACT V. SCENE I-4 Garden. discovered lying on the Ground. Soft Music. Cas. See where the deer trot after one another: No discontent they know; but in delightful Calm arbours, lusty health and innocence, Once in a season too they taste of love: Enter ACASTO. Acas. Castalio! Castalio! Cas. Who's there So wretched but to name Castalio? Acas. I hope my message may succeed. Acas. I say, no more dispute. Complaints are made to me that you have wrong'd her. Cas. Who has complain'd? Acas. Her brother to my face proclaim'd her wrong'd, And in such terms they've warm'd me. Cas. What terms? Her brother! Heaven! Where learn'd he that? With the remembrance of an ancient friendship. 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 folltes; the remembrance Of the lov'd creature that once fill'd these armsCham. Has not been wrong'd. Cas. It shall not. Cham. No, nor shall Monimia, though a helpless orphan, destitute What, does she send her hero with defiance? Of poor Chamont, whose sword is all his portion, Acas. No, not much: B' oppress'd by thee, thou proud, imperious traitor! Cas. Ha! set me free. me think you did This opportunity to show your vanity,' Let's meet some other time, when by ourselves We fairly may dispute our wrongs together. Cham. Till then I am Castalio's friend. [Exit. Acas. Would I'd been absent when this boist'rous brave Came to disturb thee thus. I'm griev'd I hinder'd For wronging innocence, and breaking vows; It To great Castalio. Cas. I've heard of such a man, Cham. Thus I'll thank you. 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: Because thou know'st that place is sanctify'd Acas. For my sake, Castalio, and the quiet of my age. ture starts at? Acas. Pr'ythee forgive her. Cas. Lightnings first shall blast me! I tell you, were she prostrate at my feet, Acas. Did you but know the agonies she feelsShe flies with fury over all the house; Through every room of each apartment, crying, "Where's my Castalio? Give me my Castalio!" Except she sees you, sure she'll grow distracted! Cas. Ha! will she? Does she name Castalio? And with such tenderness? Conduct me quickly To the poor lovely mourner. Acas. Then wilt thou go? Blessings attend thy purpose! Cas. I cannot hear Monimia's soul's in sadness, And be a man: my heart will not forget her. Acas. Delay not then; but haste and cheer thy love. Cas. Oh! I will throw my impatient arms about her! In her soft bosom sigh my soul to peace; Till through the panting breast she finds the way (With torment I must tell it thee, Castalio), 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. 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, Cas. Who talks of dying, with a voice so sweet I should know all, for love is pregnant in 'em; That life's in love with it? Mon. Hark! 'tis he that answers. Where art thou? Cas. Here, my love. Mon. No nearer, lest I vanish. Cas. Have I been in a dream then all this while? 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, Cas. Is't then so hard, Monimia, to forgive A fault, where humble love, like mine, implores thee? For I must love thee, though it prove my ruin. Mon. If I am dumb, Castalio, and want words Just as thy poor heart thinks. Have not I wrong'd thee? Cas. 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'y thee 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 inquiry? Read'st thou not something in my face, that speaks Wonderful change, and horror from within me? Monimia, poor Monimia, tells you this: Cas. Ne'er meet again? Mon. No, never. Cas. Where's the power but On earth, that dares not look like thee, and say so? Mon. Time will clear all; but now let this content you: Heaven has decreed, and therefore I've resolv'd 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 this 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. Pol. To live, and live a torment to myself, What dog would bear't, that knew but his condition? We've little knowledge, and that makes us cowards, Because it cannot tell us what's to come. Cas. Who's there? Pol. Why, what art thou? Cas. Of my Monimia? Methinks my Polydore appears in sadness. Pol. Thou dost. Cos. Alas, I've wondrous reason! I'm strangely alter'd, brother, since I saw thee. Pol. Why? Cas. I'll tell thee, Polydore; I would repose Within thy friendly bosom all my follies; For thou wilt pardon 'em, because they're mine. Pol. Be not too credulous; consider first, Friends may be false. Is there no friendship false? Cas. Why dost thou ask me that? Does this appear . Like a false friendship, when, with open arms Pol. I fear, Castalio, I have none to give thee. I never had a thought of my Castalio, Pol. Then tell me why this morning, this disorder? Cas. O Polydore, I know not how to tell thee; Shame rises in my face, and interrupts The story of my tongue. Pol. I grieve, my friend Cas. Thou art my brother still. Pol. Thou liest! Knows any thing which he's asham'd to tell me. Plac'd some coarse peasant's cub, and thou art he! And made a contract I ne'er meant to keep. Pol. How! Cas. Still new ways I studied to abuse thee, And kept thee as a stranger to my passion, Till yesterday I wedded with Monimia. Pol. Ah! Castalio, was that well done? Cas. No; to conceal't from thee was much a fault. Pol. A fault! when thou hast heard The tale I'll tell, what wilt thou call it then? Cas. How my heart throbs! Pol. First, for thy friendship, traitor, I cancel't thus: after this day I'll ne'er Hold trust or converse with the false Castalio! This witness, heaven. Cas. What will my fate do with me? I've lost all happiness, and know not why! What means this, brother? Pol. Perjur'd, treach'rous wretch, Farewell! Cas. Nay, then Yet I am calm. Pol. A coward's always so. [Draws. Cas. Ah!-ah!-that stings home! Coward! [They fight; Polydore drops his Sword, Pol. Now my Castalio is again my friend. Cas. What have I done? my sword is in, thy breast. Pol. So would I have it be, thou best of men, Thou kindest brother, and thou truest friend! Cas. Ye gods! we're taught that all your works are justice: Ye're painted merciful, and friends to innocence: I've stain'd thy bed; thy spotless marriage joys Pol. By me, last night, the horrid deed Cas. I'll be thy slave, and thou shalt use me Was done, when all things slept but rage Just as thou wilt, do but forgive me. Pol. Never. Cas. Oh! think a little what thy heart is doing: How, from our infancy, we hand in hand thou now, Pol. Blind wretch! thou husband? there's a question! Is she not a Cas. What? Pol. Whore? I think that word needs no and incest. Cas. Now, where's Monimia? Oh! Enter MONIMIA. Mon. I'm here! who calls me? Methought I heard a voice Sweet as the shepherd's pipe upon the mountains, When all his little flock's at feed before him. But what means this? here's blood! Cas. Ay, brother's blood! Art thou prepar'd for everlasting pains? Hurt not her tender life! Mon. That task myself have finish'd: I shall die Before we part: I've drunk a healing draught For all my cares, and never more shall wrong thee. Pol. Oh, she's innocent. And thou wilt make a wretch of me indeed. Pol. Hadst thou, Castalio, us'd me like a friend, This ne'er had happen'd; hadst thou let me know Thy marriage, we had all now met in joy: But, ignorant of that, Hearing th' appointment made, enrag'd to think More sorrows on thy aged father's head! When I am dead, as presently I shall be (For the grim tyrant grasps my heart already), Speak well of me: and if thou find ill tongues Too busy with my fame, don't hear me wrong'd; Cas. Thou, unkind Chamont, "Twill be a noble justice to the memory Unjustly hast pursu'd me with thy hate, Of a poor wretch, once honour'd with thy And sought the life of him that never wrong'd love. [Dies. Enter CHAMONT and ACASTO. If I forgive your My sister, my Monimia, breathless!-Now, Cas. Stand off! thou hot-brain'd, boisterous, And leave me to my sorrows. I bore her living, I will ne'er forsake her; thee: Now, if thou wilt embrace a noble vengeance, Cham. What? Acas. Have patience. Cas. Patience! preach it to the winds, Chamont, to thee my birthright I bequeath:- [Acasto faints into the Arms of a Servant. nothing. [Dies. Cham. Take care of good Acasto, whilst Igo [Draws a Dagger. To search the means by which the fates have plagu'd us. Cham. Thou canst not kill me! That would be kindness, and against thy nature! 'Tis thus that heav'n its empire does maintain: Acas. What means Castalio? Sure thou wilt It may afflict; but man must not complain. not pull [Exeunt. PHILIP S. AMBROSE PHILIPS was descended from a very ancient and considerable family of that name in Leicestershire, He was born about the year 1671, and received his education' at St. John's College, Cambridge. During his stay at the uni versity he wrote his Pastorals, which acquired him at this time a high reputation. He also, in 1700 published a life of John Williams, Lord Keeper of the Great Seal, Bishop of Lincoln, and Archbishop of York, in the reigns of King James and Charles I. in which are related some remarkable occurrences in those times, both in church and state; with an appendix, giving an account of his benefactions to St. John's College. When he quitted the university, and came to London, he became a constant attendant at, and one of the wits of, Button's coffee-house, where he obtained the friendship and intimacy of many of the celebrated geniuses of that age, more particularly of Sir Richard Steele, who, in the first volume of his Tatler, has inserted a little poem of Mr. Philips's, which he calls a Winter Piece, dated from Copenhagen, and addressed to the Earl of Dorset, on which he bestows the highest encomiums; and, indeed, so much justice is there in these his commendations that even Pope himself, who had a fixed aversion for the author, while be affected to despise his other works, used always to except this from the number. Sir R. Steele intended to produce Mr. Philips's Pastorals with a critical comparison of them, in favour of Philips, with Pope's; but Pope artfully took the task upon himself, and, in a paper in The Guardian, by drawing the like comparison, and giving a like preference, but on principles of criticism apparently fallacious tried to point out the absurdity of such a judgment. A quarrel ensued; Pope was too much for Philips in wit; and Philips would have been too much for Pope in fisty-cuffs, if he had made his appearance at Burton's, where a rod had been hung up for him by Philips. Pope wisely avoided the argumentum baculinum. Mr. Philips's circumstances were in general, through his life, not only easy, but rather affluent, in consequence of his being connected, by his political principles with persons of great rank and consequence. He was, soon after the accession of King George 1, put into the commission of the peace; and, in 1717, appointed one of the commissioners of the lottery; and, on his friend Dr. Boulter's being made primate of Ireland, he accompanied that prelate &cross St. George's Channel, where he had considerable preferments bestowed on him, and was elected a member of the House of Commons there, as representative for the county of Armagh. In Sept 1754, he was appointed register of the Prerogative Court in Dublin. At length, having purchased an annuity for life of four hundred pounds, he came over to England some time in the year 1748, but did not long enjoy his fortune, being struck with a palsy, of which he died June 18, 1749, in his 78th year, at his lodgings near Vauxhall. THE DISTREST MOTHER. ACTED at Drury Lane, 1719. This play is little more than a translation from the Andromaque of Racine. It is, however, very well translated, the poetry pleasing, and the incidents of the story so affecting that although it is, like all the French tragedies, rather too heavy and declamatory, yet it never fails bringing tears into the eyes of a sensible audience; and will, perhaps, ever continue to be a stock play on the lists of the theatres. The original author, however, has deviated from history and Philips likewise followed his example in making Hermione kill herself on the body of Pyrrhus, who had been slain by her instigation; whereas, on the contrary, she not only survived, but became wife to Orestes. How far the licentia poetica will authorize such oppositions to well-known facts of history, is, however, a point concerning which we have not time at present to enter into a disquisition. Dr. Johnson observes, that such a work requires no uncommon powers; but that the friends of Philips exerted every art to promote his interest. Before the appearance of the play, a whole Spectator, none indeed of the best, was devoted to its praise; while it yet continued to |