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May well instruct me rage is in his heart,
I shall be next abandon'd to my fortune,
Thrust cut, a naked wand'rer to the world,
And branded for the mischievous Monimia!
What will become of me? My cruel brother
Is framing mischiefs too, for aught I know,
That may produce bloodshed and horrid murder!
I would not be the cause of one man's death,
To reign the empress of the earth; nay, more,
I'd rather lose for ever my Castalio,
My dear, unkind Castalio.

Enter POLYDore.

Pol. Monimia weeping!

[Sits down.

I come, my love, to kiss all sorrow from thee. What mean these sighs, and why thus beats 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 His oaths, your vows, and to my torment saw Your wild embraces; heard the appointment made;

I did, Monimia, and I curs'd the sound. Wilt thou be sworn, my love? wilt thou be ne'er Unkind again?

Mon. Banish such fruitless hopes! Have you sworn constancy to my undoing? Will you be ne'er my friend again? Pol. What means my love?

Mon. Away! what meant my lord Last night?

Pol. Is that a question now to be demanded?
Mon. Was it well done

T" assault my lodging at the dead of night,
And threaten me if I deny'd admittance—
You said you were Castalio.

Pol. By those eyes,

It was the same: I spent my time much better. Mon. Ha!-have a care!'

Pol. Where is the danger near me? Mon. I fear you're on a rock will wreck your quiet,

And drown your soul in wretchedness for ever. A thousand horrid thoughts crowd on my mem

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Let mischiefs multiply! let every hour
Of my loath'd life yield me increase of horror!
O let the sun, to these unhappy eyes,
Ne'er shine again, but be eclips'd for ever!
May every thing I look on seem a prodigy,
To fill my soul with terrors, till I quite
Forget I ever had humanity,

And grow a curser of the works of nature!
Pol. What means all this?
Mon. O Polydore! if all

The friendship e'er you vow'd to good Castalio
Be not a falsehood; if you ever lov'd

Your brother, you've undone yourself and me. Pol. Which way can ruin reach the man that's rich,

As I am, in possession of thy sweetness?
Mon. Oh! I'm his wife!

Pol. What says Monimia?
Mon. I am Castalio's wife!
Pol. His marry'd, wedded wife?
Mon. Yesterday's sun

Saw it perform'd!

Pol. My brother's wife?

Mon. As surely as we both

Must taste of misery, that guilt is thine.
Pol. Oh! thou may'st yet be happy!
Mon. Couldst thou be

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: heap a load

Of added sins upon my wretched head! Wouldst thou again have me betray thy brother, And bring pollution to his arms?

thought!

Oh! when shall I be mad indeed! Pol. Then thus I'll go

Curs'd

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Full of my guilt, distracted where to roam:
I'll find some place where adders nest in winter,
Loathsome and venomous; where poisons hang
Like gums against the walls: there I'll inhabit,
And live up to the height of desperation.
Desire shall languish like a with'ring flower,
Horrors shall fright me from those pleasing harms,
And I'll no more be caught with beauty's
charms.
[Exit.

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 Wildness and freedom, pleasant springs, fresh herbage,

Calm arbours, lusty health and innocence,
Enjoy their portion:-if they see a man,
How will they turn together all, and gaze
Upon the monster!

Once in a season too they taste of love:
Only the beast of reason is its slave;
And in that folly drudges all the year.

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Cas. My father!

'Tis joy to see you, though where sorrow's nourish'd.

Acas. Castalio, you must go along with me, And see Monimia.

Cas. Sure my lord but mocks me: Go see Monimia?

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 arms-
Cham. Has not been wrong'd.
Cas. It shall not.

Cham. No, nor shall

Monimia, though a helpless orphan, destitute
Of friends and fortune, though th' unhappy sister

What, does she send her hero with defiance? Of poor Chamont, whose sword is all his portion,

He durst not sure affront you?

Acas. No, not much:

But

Cas. Speak, what said he?

Acas. That thou wert a villain:

Methinks I would not have thee thought a villain.
Cas. Shame on the ill-manner'd brute!
Your age secur'd him; he durst not else have said
Acas. By my sword,

I would not see thee wrong'd, and bear it vilely: Though I have pass'd my word she shall have justice.

Cas. Justice! to give her justice would undo her.

Think you this solitude I now have chosen,
Wish'd do have grown one piece
With this cold clay, and all without a cause?

Enter CHAMONT.

Cham. Where is the hero, famous and renown'd

B' oppress'd by thee, thou proud, imperious

traitor!

Cas. Ha! set me free.
Cham. Come both.

Cas. Sir, if you'd have me think you did not take

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
Thy just resentment-But, Monimia-
Cas. Damn her!
Acas. Don't curse her.
Cas. Did I?

For wronging innocence, and breaking vows; It
Whose mighty spirit, and whose stubborn heart,
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 sanctify'd

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Acas. For my sake, Castalio, and the quiet of my age. Cas. Why will you urge a thing my na

ture starts at?

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 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), To mould my heart, and make it what she will. Ever to be a stranger to thy love, Monimia! Oh! [Exeunt. 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.

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.

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,
We might be happy.

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

ruin.

For I must love thee, though it prove my
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?

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'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 inquiry?
Read'st thou not something in my face, that
speaks

Wonderful change, and horror from within me?
Cas. If, lab'ring in the pangs of death,
Thou wouldst do any thing to give me ease,
Unfold this riddle ere my thoughts grow wild,
And let in fears of ugly form upon me.
Mon. My heart won't 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: 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. My brother Polydore?
Pol. My name is Polydore.
Cas. Canst thou inform me-
Pol. Of what?

Cas. Of my Monimia?
Pol. No. Good day!

Cas. In haste!

Methinks my Polydore appears in sadness.
Pol. Indeed! and so to me does my Castalio.
Cas. Do I?

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
And streaming eyes, I run upon thy breast?
Oh! 'tis in thee alone I must have comfort!

Pol. I fear, Castalio, I have none to give thee.
Cas. Dost thou not love me then?
Pol. Oh, more than life;

I never had a thought of my Castalio,
Might wrong the friendship we had vow'd
together.

Hast thou dealt so by me?
Cas. I hope I have.

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!

[Draws.

Knows any thing which he's asham'd to tell me. Plac'd some coarse peasant's cub, and thou art he!
Cas. Oh, much too oft. Our destiny contriv'd
To plague us both with one unhappy love!
Thou, like a friend, a constant, gen'rous friend,
In its first pangs didst trust me with thy passion,
Whilst I still smooth'd my pain with smiles
before thee,

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.

Cas. Ah!-ah!—that stings home! Coward!
Pol. Ay, base-born coward! villain!
Cas. This to thy heart, then, though my
mother bore thee!

[They fight; Polydore drops his Sword,
and runs on Castalio's.

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:
If so, then why these plagues upon my head?
Pol. Blame not the heav'ns, 'tis Polydore
has wrong'd thee;

I've stain'd thy bed; thy spotless marriage joys
Have been polluted by thy brother's lust.
Cas. By thee?

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
Have trod the path of life in love together.
One bed has held us, and the same desires,
The same aversions, still employ'd our thoughts.
Whene'er had I a friend that was not Polydore's
Or Polydore a foe that was not mine?
Een in the womb we embrac'd; and wilt
thou now,
For the first fault, abandon and forsake me?
Leave me, amidst afflictions, to myself,
Plung'd in the gulf of grief, and none to help me?
Pol. Go to Monimia; in her arms thou❜lt find
Repose; she has the art of healing sorrows.
Cas. What arts?

Pol. Blind wretch! thou husband? there's a question!

Is she not a

Cas. What?

Pol. Whore? I think that word needs no

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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?
Pol. Oh! let me charge thee, by th' eternal
justice,
Hurt not her tender life!
Cas. Not kill her?

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.
Cas. Tell me that story,

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
Thou hadst undone me in successful love,
I, in the dark, went and supply'd thy place;
Whilst all the night, midst our triumphant joys,
The trembling, tender, kind, deceiv'd Monimia,
Embrac'd, caress'd, and call'd me her Castalio.
[Dies.

Mon. Now, my Castalio, the most dear of men, Wilt thou receive pollution to thy bosom, And close the eyes of one that has betray'd thee? Cas. O, I'm the unhappy wretch, whose cursed fate

Has weigh'd thee down into destruction with him: Why then thus kind to me!

Mon. When I'm laid low i'th' grave, and quite forgotten, happy in a fairer bride! But none can ever love thee like Monimia.

May'st thou be

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;
"Twill be a noble justice to the memory
Of a poor wretch, once honour'd with thy
love.
[Dies.

Enter CHAMONT and ACASTO.
Cham. Gape, earth, and swallow me to
quick destruction,

If I forgive your house!
Ye've overpower'd me now!
But, hear me, heav'n!-Ah! here's a scene of
death!

My sister, my Monimia, breathless!-Now,
Ye pow'rs above, if ye have justice, strike!
Strike bolts through me, and through the curs'd
Castalio!

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

And leave me to my sorrows.
Cham. 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-

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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 Serina-
Now 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 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 he 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 lik 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 across 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

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