thee?

Cast. No.

Mon. Still thou wander'st in the dark, Castalio; But wilt, ere long, stumble on horrid danger. Cast. What means my love?

Mon. Couldst thou but forgive me

Cast. What?

not!

Cast. I can, and do.

Mon. Thus crawling on the earth,

Would I that pardon meet; the only thing

Can make me view the face of heaven with hope.
Cast. Then, let's draw near.
Mon. Ah, me!

Cast. So, in the fields,

When the destroyer has been out for prey, The scattered lovers of the feathered kind, Seeking, when danger's past, to meet again, Make moan, and call, by such degrees approach; "Till, joining thus, they bill, and spread their wings,

Murmuring love, and joy their fears are over. Mon. Yet, have a care; be not too fond of peace,

Lest, in pursuance of the goodly quarry,
Thou meet a disappointment that distracts thee.
Cast. My better angel, then do thou inform

me,

Which, with my mournful sighs, made such sad music,

As might have moved the hardest heart; why wert thou

Deaf to my cries, and senseless of my pains?

Mon. Did not I beg thee to forbear inquiry? Read'st thou not something in my face, that speaks

Wonderful change, and horror from within me? Cust. Then there is something yet, which I've not known:

What dost thou mean by horror, and forbearance Of more inquiry? Tell me, I beg thee, tell me, And don't betray me to a second madness! Mon. Must I

Cast. If, labouring in the pangs of death, Thou would'st 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-

Cast. What means my destiny?

For all my good or evil fate dwells in thee!
Ne'er meet again!

Mon. No, never.

Cast. Where's the power

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.

Cast. Where am I? Sure I wander 'midst enchantment,

And never more shall find the way to rest;
But, oh, Monimia! art thou indeed resolved
To punish me with everlasting absence?
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 embarked.
Wilt thou not turn? Oh! could those eyes but
speak,

I should know all, for love is pregnant in them ;
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!
Cust. Pity, by the gods,

[Exit MONIMIA.

She pities me! then thou wilt go eternally.
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.
Cast. Who's there?-

Pol. Why, what art thou?
Cust. My brother Polydore?
Pol. My name is Polydore.
Cast, Canst thou inform me-
Pol. Of what!

Cast. Of my Monimia!
Pol. No. Good-day.
Cast. In haste!

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

Pol. Thou dost.

Cast. Alas, I have wond'rous reason? I'm strangely altered, brother, since I saw thee. Pol. Why!

Cast. Oh! to tell thee, would but put thy

heart

To pain. Let me embrace thee but a little,

And weep upon thy neck; I would reposę

Within thy friendly bosom all my follies;
For thou wilt pardon them, because they're mine.
Pol. Be not too credulous; consider first;
Friends may be falsc. Is there no friendship
false?

Cast. 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.
Cast. Dost thou not love me, then?
Pol. Oh, more than life:

I never had a thought of my Castalio,
Might wrong the friendship we have vowed to-
gether.

Hast thou dealt so by me?

Cast. I hope I have.

Pol. Then tell me why this mourning, this disorder?

Cast. Oh, 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

Knows any thing, which he's ashamed to tell me; Or didst thou e'er conceal thy thoughts from Polydore ?

Cast. Oh, much too oft!

But let me here conjure thee,

By all the kind affection of a brother,

(For I'm ashamed to call myself thy friend) Forgive me

Pol. Well, go on.

Cast. Our destiny contrived

To plague us both with one unhappy love.
Thou, like a friend, a constant, generous friend,
In its first pangs didst trust me with thy passion,
Whilst I still smoothed my pain with smiles be-
fore thee,

And made a contract I ne'er meant to keep.
Pol. How!

Cast. 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!

Cust. No; to conceal it from thee was much
a fault.

Pol. A fault! when thou hast heard
The tale I tell, what wilt thou call it then?
Cast. 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!

Cast. What will my fate do with me? I've lost all happiness, and know not why. What means this, brother?

Pol. Perjured, treacherous wretch, Farewell!

Cast. I'll be thy slave, and thou shalt use me Just as thou wilt, do but forgive me.

Pol. Never.

Cast. Oh! think a little what thy heart is doing:

VOL. I.

How from our infancy, we, hand in hand,
Have trod the path of life and love together;
One bed hath held us, and the same desires,
The same aversions, still employed our thoughts:
When e'er had I a friend, that was not Polydore's,
Or Polydore a foe, that was not mine?
Even in the womb we embraced; and wilt thou now,
For the first fault, abandon and forsake me,
Leave me, amidst afflictions, to myself,
Plunged 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.
Cast. What arts?

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

Go to her fulsome bed, and wallow there;
Till some hot ruffian, full of lust and wine,
Come storm thee out, and shew thee what's thy
bargain.

Cast. Hold there, I charge thee.

Pol. Is she not a-

Cast. Whore?

Pol. Ay, whore; I think that word needs no explaining.

Cast. Alas! I can forgive even this, to thee! But let me tell thee, Polydore, I'm grieved To find thee guilty of such low revenge,

To wrong that virtue, which thou couldst not ruin. Pol. It seems I lie, then?

Cast. Should the bravest man

That e'er wore conquering sword, but dare to whisper

What thou proclaim'st, he were the worst of liars: My friend may be mistaken.

Pol. Damn the evasion!

Thou mean'st the worst; and he's a base-born villain, That said I lied.

Gast. Do draw thy sword, and thrust it through my heart;

There is no joy in life, if thou art lost.-
A base-born villain!

Pol. Yes; thou never cam'st
From old Acasto's loins; the midwife put
A cheat upon my mother, and instead
Of a true brother, in a cradle by me,
Placed some coarse peasant's cub, and thou art he.
Gast. Thou art my brother still.
Pol. Thou liest.

Cast. Ah!-ah-that stings home-Coward! Pol. Ay, base-born coward! villain!

Gust. This to thy heart, then, though my mother bore thee.

[Fight; POLYDore drops his sword, and runs on CASTALIO'S.

Pol. Now, my Castalio is again my friend. Cast. What have I done? my sword is in thy breast!

Pol. So I would have it be, thou best of men, Thou kindest brother, and thou truest friend. Cast. Ye gods, we're taught, that all your works are justice,

2 E

Chamont, to thee my birth-right I bequeath;
Comfort my mourning father, heal his griefs,

[ACAS. 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 wronged, 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. Cha. Take care of good Acasto, whilst I go To search the means, by which the fates have plagued us.

'Tis thus that heaven its empire does maintain; It may afflict, but man must not complain. [Exeunt omnes.

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 amongst you no good nature? No.
What should I do? should I the godly seek,
And go a conventicling twice a week?
Quit the lewd stage, and its prophane 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-lodging 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.

IN these distracted times, when each man dreads
The bloody stratagems of busy heads;
When we have feared three years we know not
what,

Till witnesses begin to die o'th' rot,
What made our poet meddle with a plot?
Was't that he fancied, for the very sake
And name of plot, his trifling play might take?
For there's not in't one inch-broad evidence,
But 'tis, he says, to reason plain and sense,
And that he thinks a plausible defence.
Were truth by sense and reason to be tried,
Sure all our swearers might be laid aside.
No, of such tools our author has no need,
To make his plot, or make his play succeed.
He, of black bills, has no prodigious tales,
Or, Spanish pilgrims cast ashore in Wales;
Here's not one murdered magistrate at least:
Kept rank like ven'son for a city feast:

Grown four days stiff, the better to prepare,
And fit his pliant limbs to ride in chair:
Yet here's an army raised, though under ground,
But no man seen, nor one commission found:
Here is a traitor too, that's very old,
Turbulent, subtle, mischievous, and bold,
Bloody, revengeful, and, to crown his part,
Loves fumbling with a wench, with all his heart;
Till after having many changes past,

In spite of age, (thanks t'heaven) is hang'd at last.
Next is a senator that keeps a whore;
In Venice none a higher office bore;
To lewdness every night the letcher ran,
Shew me, all London, such another man,
Match him at Mother Creswold's, if you can.
Oh Poland! Poland! had it been thy lot,
T'have heard in time of this Venetian plot,
Thou surely chosen had'st one king from thence,
And honour'd them as thou hast England since.