No More Learning

_ I grieve, my friend
Knows any thing which he's asham'd to tell me.

_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. _ I'll be thy slave, and thou shalt use me
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?
E'en 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 explaining.

_Cas. _ Alas! I can forgive e'en this to thee;
But let me tell thee, Polydore, I'm griev'd
To find thee guilty of such low revenge,
To wrong that virtue which thou couldst not ruin.

_Pol. _ It seems I lie, then!

_Cas. _ Should the bravest man
That e'er wore conq'ring 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!

_Cas. _ 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 the cradle by me
Plac'd some coarse peasant's cub, and thou art he!

_Cas. _ Thou art my brother still.

_Pol. _ Thou liest!

_Cas. _ Nay, then---- [_draws. _
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 runs on Castalio's 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:
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
Was done, when all things slept but rage 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 supplied 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 you?

_Cas. _ O, I'm the unhappy wretch, whose cursed fate
Has weigh'd you down into destruction with him:
Why then thus kind to me!

_Mon. _ When I'm laid low i'th' grave, and quite forgotten,
May'st thou be happy in a fairer bride!
But none can ever love thee like Monimia.
When I am dead, as presently I shall be
(For the grim tyrant grasps my hand 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 powers 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-- [_draws a dagger. _

_Cham. _ Thou canst not kill me!
That would be a kindness, and against thy nature!

_Acas. _ 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 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 I go
To search the means by which the fates have plagu'd us.
'Tis thus that heav'n its empire does maintain:
It may afflict; but man must not complain. [_exeunt. _


THE END.




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,
The author sends to beg you will be kind,
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 now;
Receive him--oh, receive him as his friends,
Embrace the blessing which he recommends:
Such quiet as your foes shall ne'er destroy;
Then shake off fears, and clap your hands for joy.




Epilogue.

SPOKEN BY SERINA.


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.

Maurice,
Fenchurch-street.