No More Learning

V.



[16] Mary Beatrix Eleonora of Este, daughter of the Duke of Modena.
She was the Duke of York's second wife. The allusion to Tasso may have
proved not altogether delightful to a Princess of this house.

[Illustration:




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 swayed
His pride, much doubting, trembling, and afraid
Of what is to his want of merit due,
And awed by every excellence in you,
The author sends to beg you would 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 you're here for other ends,
He swears to me, ye ought to be his friends:
For he ne'er called ye yet insipid tools;
Nor wrote one line to tell you ye 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 bedaubed and shown;
Nay, never once lampooned the harmless life
Of suburb-virgin, or of city-wife.
Satire's the 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Since of ill fate the baneful cloud's withdrawn,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,[17]
That always drove fears hence, ne'er brought them home.
Oft has he ploughed the boisterous ocean o'er,
Yet ne'er more welcome to the longing shore,
Not when he brought home victories before.
For then fresh laurels flourished on his brow,
And he comes crowned with olive-branches now;
Receive him! oh, receive him as his friends;
Embrace the blessings which he recommends:
Such quiet as your foes shall ne'er destroy;
Then shake off fears, and clap your hands for joy.

FOOTNOTES:

[17] The Duke of York; who had returned from Brussels, whither he had
retired to escape the clamours of the Protestant party.

[Illustration:




_DRAMATIS PERSONÆ. _]


ACASTO, a Nobleman retired from Court, and living privately in
the Country.
CASTALIO, } Twin Sons of Acasto.
POLYDORE, }
CHAMONT, a young Soldier of Fortune.
ERNESTO, } Servants to Acasto.
PAULINO, }
CORDELIO, Polydore's Page.
Chaplain.
Servants.

MONIMIA, the Orphan, left under the Guardianship of Acasto.
SERINA, Acasto's Daughter.
FLORELLA, Monimia's Woman.

SCENE--BOHEMIA.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

_THE ORPHAN. _




ACT THE FIRST.


SCENE I. --_An Ante-Room in_ ACASTO'S _House_.

_Enter_ PAULINO _and_ ERNESTO.

Paul. 'Tis strange, Ernesto, this severity
Should still reign powerful in Acasto's mind,
To hate the court, where he was bred, and lived,
All honours heaped on him that power could give.

_Ern. _ 'Tis true; he thither came a private gentleman,
But young and brave, and of a family
Ancient and noble as the empire holds.
The honours he has gained are justly his,--
He purchased them in war; thrice has he led
An army 'gainst the rebels, and as often
Returned with victory: the world has not
A truer soldier, or a better subject.

_Paul. _ It was his virtue at first made me serve him;
He is the best of masters, as of friends.
I know he has lately been invited thither;
Yet still he keeps his stubborn purpose; cries,
He's old, and willingly would be at rest:
I doubt there's deep resentment in his mind,
For the late slight his honour suffered there.

_Ern. _ Has he not reason? When, for what he had borne,--
Long, hard, and faithful toil,--he might have claimed
Places in honour, and employment high,
A huffing, shining, flattering, cringing coward,
A canker-worm of peace, was raised above him.

_Paul. _ Yet still he holds just value for the king,
Nor ever names him but with highest reverence.
'Tis noble that--

_Ern. _ Oh! I have heard him, wanton in his praise,
Speak things of him might charm the ears of envy.

_Paul. _ Oh! may he live till Nature's self grow old,
And from her womb no more can bless the earth!
For, when he dies, farewell all honour, bounty,
All generous encouragement of arts!
For Charity herself becomes a widow.

_Ern. _ No, he has two sons, that were ordained to be
As well his virtues', as his fortune's heirs.

_Paul. _ They're both of nature mild, and full of sweetness;
They came twins from the womb, and still they live
As if they would go twins too to the grave.
Neither has anything he calls his own,
But of each other's joys, as griefs, partaking;
So very honestly, so well they love,
As they were only for each other born.

_Ern. _ Never was parent in an offspring happier!
He has a daughter too, whose blooming age
Promises goodness equal to her beauty.

_Paul. _ And as there is a friendship 'twixt the brethren,
So has her infant nature chosen too
A faithful partner of her thoughts and wishes,
And kind companion of her harmless pleasures.

_Ern. _ You mean the beauteous orphan, fair Monimia.

_Paul. _ The same, the daughter of the brave Chamont.
He was our lord's companion in the wars;
Where such a wondrous friendship grew between them
As only death could end. Chamont's estate
Was ruined in our late and civil discords;
Therefore, unable to advance her fortune,
He left his daughter to our master's care,--
To such a care, as she scarce lost a father.

_Ern. _ Her brother to the emperor's wars went early,
To seek a fortune, or a noble fate;
Whence he with honour is expected back,
And mighty marks of that great prince's favour.

_Paul. _ Our master never would permit his sons
To launch for fortune in the uncertain world;
But warns them to avoid both courts and camps,
Where dilatory Fortune plays the jilt
With the brave, noble, honest, gallant man,
To throw herself away on fools and knaves.

_Ern. _ They both have forward, generous, active spirits:
'Tis daily their petition to their father,
To send them forth where glory's to be gotten;
They cry they're weary of their lazy home,
Restless to do some thing that Fame may talk of.
To-day they chased the boar, and near this time
Should be returned.

_Paul. _ Oh, that's a royal sport!
We yet may see the old man in a morning,
Lusty as health, come ruddy to the field,
And there pursue the chase, as if he meant
To o'ertake time, and bring back youth again.

[_Exeunt_ PAULINO _and_ ERNESTO.

_Enter_ CASTALIO, POLYDORE, _and_ Page.

_Cast. _ Polydore, our sport
Has been to-day much better for the danger:
When on the brink the foaming boar I met,
And in his side thought to have lodged my spear,
The desperate savage rushed within my force,
And bore me headlong with him down the rock.

_Pol. _ But then--

_Cast. _ Ay, then, my brother, my friend Polydore,
Like Perseus mounted on his wingèd steed,
Came on, and down the dangerous precipice leaped
To save Castalio. 'Twas a god-like act!

_Pol. _ But when I came, I found you conqueror.
Oh, my heart danced to see your danger past!
The heat and fury of the chase was cooled,
And I had nothing in my mind but joy.

_Cast. _ So, Polydore, methinks we might in war
Rush on together; thou shouldst be my guard,
And I be thine; what is't could hurt us then?
Now half the youth of Europe are in arms,
How fulsome must it be to stay behind,
And die of rank diseases here at home!

_Pol. _ No, let me purchase in my youth renown,
To make me loved and valued when I'm old:
I would be busy in the world, and learn,
Not like a coarse and useless dunghill-weed,
Fixed to one spot, and rot just as I grew.

_Cast. _ Our father
Has ta'en himself a surfeit of the world,
And cries it is not safe that we should taste it:
I own I've duty very powerful in me;
And, though I'd hazard all to raise my name,
Yet he's so tender and so good a father,
I could not do a thing to cross his will.

_Pol. _ Castalio, I have doubts within my heart,
Which you, and only you, can satisfy:
Will you be free and candid to your friend?

_Cast. _ Have I a thought my Polydore should not know?
What can this mean?

_Pol. _ Nay, I'll conjure you too,
By all the strictest bonds of faithful friendship,
To show your heart as naked in this point
As you would purge you of your sins to Heaven.

_Cast. _ I will.

_Pol. _ And, should I chance to touch it nearly, bear it
With all the sufferance of a tender friend.

_Cast. _ As calmly as the wounded patient bears
The artist's hand that ministers his cure.

_Pol. _ That's kindly said. You know our father's ward,
The fair Monimia;--is your heart at peace?
Is it so guarded that you could not love her?

_Cast. _ Suppose I should?

_Pol. _ Suppose you should not, brother?

_Cast. _ You'd say, I must not.

_Pol. _ That would sound too roughly
'Twixt friends and brothers, as we two are.

_Cast. _ Is love a fault?

_Pol. _ In one of us it may be:
What if I love her?

_Cast. _ Then I must inform you
I loved her first, and cannot quit the claim,
But will preserve the birthright of my passion.

_Pol. _ You will?

_Cast. _ I will.

_Pol. _ No more, I've done.

_Cast. _ Why not?

_Pol. _ I told you I had done;
But you, Castalio, would dispute it.

_Cast. _ No,
Not with my Polydore; though I must own
My nature obstinate and void of sufferance.
Love reigns a very tyrant in my heart,
Attended on his throne by all his guards
Of furious wishes, fears, and nice suspicions.
I could not bear a rival in my friendship,
I am so much in love, and fond of thee.

_Pol. _ Yet you would break this friendship

_Cast. _ Not for crowns.

_Pol. _ But for a toy you would, a woman's toy:
Unjust Castalio!

_Cast. _ Pr'ythee, where's my fault?

_Pol. _ You love Monimia.

_Cast. _ Yes.

_Pol. _ And you would kill me,
If I'm your rival.

_Cast. _ No, sure we're such friends,
So much one man, that our affections too
Must be united, and the same as we are.

_Pol. _ I dote upon Monimia.

_Cast. _ Love her still;
Win, and enjoy her.

_Pol. _ Both of us cannot.

_Cast. _ No matter
Whose chance it prove; but let's not quarrel for't.

_Pol. _ You would not wed Monimia, would you?

_Cast. _ Wed her!
No! were she all desire could wish, as fair
As would the vainest of her sex be thought,
With wealth beyond what woman's pride could waste,
She should not cheat me of my freedom. Marry!
When I am old and weary of the world,
I may grow desperate,
And take a wife to mortify withal.

_Pol. _ It is an elder brother's duty so
To propagate his family and name:
You would not have yours die and buried with you?

_Cast. _ Mere vanity, and silly dotage all:
No, let me live at large, and when I die--

_Pol. _ Who shall possess the estate you leave?

_Cast. _ My friend,
If he survives me; if not, my king,
Who may bestow't again on some brave man,
Whose honesty and services deserve one.

_Pol. _ 'Tis kindly offered.

_Cast. _ By yon Heaven, I love
My Polydore beyond all worldly joys,
And would not shock his quiet, to be blest
With greater happiness than man e'er tasted.

_Pol. _ And by that Heaven eternally I swear
To keep the kind Castalio in my heart.
Whose shall Monimia be?

_Cast. _ No matter whose.

_Pol. _ Were you not with her privately last night?

_Cast. _ I was, and should have met her here again;
But the opportunity shall now be thine;
Myself will bring thee to the scene of love:
But have a care, by friendship I conjure thee,
That no false play be offered to thy brother!
Urge all thy powers to make thy passion prosper,
But wrong not mine.

_Pol. _ Heaven blast me if I do!

_Cast. _ If't prove thy fortune, Polydore, to conquer,
(For thou hast all the arts of fine persuasion! )
Trust me, and let me know thy love's success,
That I may ever after stifle mine.

_Pol. _ Though she be dearer to my soul than rest
To weary pilgrims, or to misers gold,
To great men power, or wealthy cities pride,
Rather than wrong Castalio, I'd forget her.
For if ye, powers, have happiness in store,
When ye would shower down joys on Polydore,
In one great blessing all your bounty send,
That I may never lose so dear a friend!

[_Exeunt_ CASTALIO _and_ POLYDORE.

_Enter_ MONIMIA.

_Mon. _ So soon returned from hunting? this fair day
Seems as if sent to invite the world abroad.
Passed not Castalio and Polydore this way?

_Page. _ Madam, just now.

_Mon. _ Sure some ill fate's upon me;
Distrust and heaviness sit round my heart,
And apprehension shocks my timorous soul.
Why was I not laid in my peaceful grave
With my poor parents, and at rest as they are?
Instead of that, I'm wandering into cares.
Castalio! O Castalio! thou hast caught
My foolish heart; and, like a tender child,
That trusts his plaything to another hand,
I fear its harm, and fain would have it back.
Come near, Cordelio. I must chide you, sir.

_Page. _ Why, madam, have I done you any wrong?

_Mon. _ I never see you now; you have been kinder;
Sat by my bed, and sung me pretty songs:
Perhaps I've been ungrateful: here's money for you:
Will you oblige me? shall I see you oftener?

_Page. _ Madam, I'd serve you with my soul;
But in a morning when you call me to you,
As by your bed I stand and tell you stories,
I am ashamed to see your swelling breasts,
It makes me blush, they are so very white.

_Mon. _ O men, for flattery and deceit renowned!
Thus when you're young ye learn it all like him,
Till, as your years increase, that strengthens too,
To undo poor maids, and make our ruin easy.
Tell me, Cordelio, for thou oft hast heard
Their friendly converse and their bosom-secrets;
Sometimes, at least, have they not talked of me?

_Page. _ O madam! very wickedly they've talked:
But I'm afraid to name it; for they say
Boys must be whipped that tell their master's secrets.

_Mon. _ Fear not, Cordelio! it shall ne'er be known;
For I'll preserve the secret as 'twere mine.
Polydore cannot be so kind as I.
I'll furnish thee for all thy harmless sports
With pretty toys, and thou shalt be my page.

_Page. _ And truly, madam, I had rather be so.
Methinks you love me better than my lord,
For he was never half so kind as you are.
What must I do?

_Mon. _ Inform me how thou'st heard
Castalio, and his brother, use my name.

_Page. _ With all the tenderness of love.
You were the subject of their last discourse:
At first I thought it would have fatal proved;
But, as the one grew hot, the other cooled,
And yielded to the frailty of his friend;
At last, after much struggling, 'twas resolved--

_Mon. _ What, good Cordelio?

_Page. _ Not to quarrel for you.

_Mon. _ I would not have them; by my dearest hopes,
I would not be the argument of strife.
But surely my Castalio won't forsake me,
And make a mockery of my easy love?
Went they together?

_Page. _ Yes, to seek you, madam.
Castalio promised Polydore to bring him
Where he alone might meet you,
And fairly try the fortune of his wishes.

_Mon. _ Am I then grown so cheap, just to be made
A common stake, a prize for love in jest?
Was not Castalio very loth to yield it?
Or was it Polydore's unruly passion
That heightened the debate?

_Page. _ The fault was Polydore's.
Castalio played with love, and smiling showed
The pleasure, not the pangs of his desire.
He said no woman's smiles should buy his freedom,
And marriage is a mortifying thing.

_Mon. _ Then I am ruined! if Castalio's false,
Where is there faith and honour to be found?
Ye Gods, that guard the innocent and guide
The weak, protect and take me to your care!
Oh, but I love him! there's the rock will wreck me
Why was I made with all my sex's softness,
Yet want the cunning to conceal its follies?
I'll see Castalio, tax him with his falsehoods,
Be a true woman, rail, protest my wrongs;
Resolve to hate him, and yet love him still.

_Re-enter_ CASTALIO _and_ POLYDORE.

He comes, the conqueror comes! lie still, my heart,
And learn to bear thy injuries with scorn.

_Cast. _ Madam, my brother begs he may have leave
To tell you something that concerns you nearly;
I leave you, as becomes me, and withdraw.

_Mon. _ My Lord Castalio!

_Cast. _ Madam!

_Mon. _ Have you purposed
To abuse me palpably? what means this usage?
Why am I left with Polydore alone?

_Cast. _ He best can tell you. Business of importance
Calls me away; I must attend my father.

_Mon. _ Will you then leave me thus?

_Cast. _ But for a moment.

_Mon. _ It has been otherwise; the time has been,
When business might have stayed, and I been heard.

_Cast. _ I could for ever hear thee; but this time
Matters of such odd circumstances press me,
That I must go. [_Exit. _

_Mon. _ Then go, and, if't be possible, for ever. --
Well, my Lord Polydore, I guess your business,
And read the ill-natured purpose in your eyes.

_Pol. _ If to desire you more than misers wealth,
Or dying men an hour of added life;
If softest wishes, and a heart more true
Than ever suffered yet for love disdained,
Speak an ill-nature, you accuse me justly.

_Mon_. Talk not of love, my lord; I must not hear it.

_Pol. _ Who can behold such beauty and be silent?
Desire first taught us words: man, when created,
At first alone, long wandered up and down,
Forlorn, and silent as his vassal-beasts;
But when a Heaven-born maid, like you, appeared,
Strange pleasures filled his eyes, and fired his heart,
Unloosed his tongue, and his first talk was love.

_Mon. _ The first-created pair, indeed, were blest;
They were the only objects of each other,
Therefore he courted her, and her alone;
But in this peopled world of beauty, where
There's roving room, where you may court, and ruin
A thousand more, why need you talk to me?

_Pol. _ Oh! I could talk to thee for ever; thus
Eternally admiring, fix and gaze
On those dear eyes; for every glance they send
Darts through my soul, and almost gives enjoyment.

_Mon. _ How can you labour thus for my undoing?
I must confess, indeed, I owe you more
Than ever I can hope or think to pay.
There always was a friendship 'twixt our families;
And therefore when my tender parents died,
Whose ruined fortunes too expired with them,
Your father's pity and his bounty took me,
A poor and helpless orphan, to his care.

_Pol. _ 'Twas Heaven ordained it so, to make me happy.
Hence with this peevish virtue! 'tis a cheat;
And those who taught it first were hypocrites.
Come, these soft tender limbs were made for yielding!

_Mon. _ Here on my knees, by Heaven's blest power I swear, [_Kneels. _
If you persist, I ne'er henceforth will see you,
But rather wander through the world a beggar,
And live on sordid scraps at proud men's doors;
For, though to fortune lost, I still inherit
My mother's virtues, and my father's honour.

_Pol. _ Intolerable vanity! your sex
Was never in the right; you're always false,
Or silly; even your dresses are not more
Fantastic than your appetites; you think
Of nothing twice; opinion you have none:
To-day you're nice, to-morrow not so free;
Now smile, then frown; now sorrowful, then glad;
Now pleased, now not; and all you know not why!
Virtue you affect, inconstancy's your practice;
And, when your loose desires once get dominion,
No hungry churl feeds coarser at a feast;
Every rank fool goes down--

_Mon. _ Indeed, my lord,
I own my sex's follies; I've them all,
And, to avoid its faults, must fly from you.
Therefore, believe me, could you raise me high
As most fantastic woman's wish could reach,
And lay all nature's riches at my feet,
I'd rather run a savage in the woods
Amongst brute beasts, grow wrinkled and deformed
As wildness and most rude neglect could make me,
So I might still enjoy my honour safe
From the destroying wiles of faithless men. [_Exit. _

_Pol. _ Who'd be that sordid foolish thing called man,
To cringe thus, fawn, and flatter for a pleasure,
Which beasts enjoy so very much above him?
The lusty bull ranges through all the field,
And, from the herd singling his female out,
Enjoys her, and abandons her at will.
It shall be so; I'll yet possess my love,
Wait on, and watch her loose unguarded hours;
Then, when her roving thoughts have been abroad,
And brought in wanton wishes to her heart,
In the very minute when her virtue nods,
I'll rush upon her in a storm of love,
Beat down her guard of honour all before me,
Surfeit on joys, till even desire grow sick;
Then by long absence liberty regain,
And quite forget the pleasure and the pain. [_Exeunt. _

[Illustration]

[Illustration]




ACT THE SECOND.


SCENE I. --_A Room in_ ACASTO'S _House_.

_Enter_ ACASTO, CASTALIO, POLYDORE, _and_ Attendants.

_Acast. _ To-day has been a day of glorious sport.
When you, Castalio, and your brother left me,
Forth from the thickets rushed another boar,
So large, he seemed the tyrant of the woods,
With all his dreadful bristles raised up high,
They seemed a grove of spears upon his back;
Foaming he came at me, where I was posted,
Best to observe which way he'd lead the chase,
Whetting his huge long tusks, and gaping wide,
As if he already had me for his prey;
Till, brandishing my well-poised javelin high,
With this bold executing arm, I struck
The ugly brindled monster to the heart.

_Cast. _ The actions of your life were always wondrous.

_Acast. _ No flattery, boy! an honest man can't live by't:
It is a little sneaking art, which knaves
Use to cajole and soften fools withal;
If thou hast flattery in thy nature, out with't,
Or send it to a court; for there 'twill thrive.

_Pol. _ Why there?

_Acast. _ 'Tis, next to money, current there;
To be seen daily in as many forms
As there are sorts of vanities, and men:
The supercilious[18] statesman has his sneer
To smooth a poor man off with, that can't bribe him;
The grave dull fellow of small business soothes
The humourist, and will needs admire his wit.
Who without spleen could see a hot-brained atheist
Thanking a surly doctor for his sermon?
Or a grave counsellor meet a smooth young lord,
Squeeze him by the hand, and praise his good complexion?

_Pol. _ Courts are the places where best manners flourish;
Where the deserving ought to rise, and fools
Make show. Why should I vex and chafe my spleen,
To see a gaudy coxcomb shine, when I
Have seen enough to soothe him in his follies,
And ride him to advantage as I please?

_Acast. _ Who merit ought indeed to rise i' the world;
But no wise man that's honest should expect.
What man of sense would rack his generous mind,
To practise all the base formalities
And forms of business, force a grave starched face,
When he's a very libertine in's heart?
Seem not to know this or that man in public,
When privately perhaps they meet together,
And lay the scene of some brave fellow's ruin?
Such things are done--

_Cast. _ Your lordship's wrongs have been
So great, that you with justice may complain;
But suffer us, whose younger minds ne'er felt
Fortune's deceits, to court her as she's fair.
Were she a common mistress, kind to all,
Her worth would cease, and half the world grow idle.

_Acast. _ Go to, you're fools, and know me not; I've learnt
Long since to bear revenge, or scorn my wrongs,
According to the value of the doer.
You both would fain be great, and to that end
Desire to do things worthy your ambition:
Go to the camp, preferment's noblest mart,
Where honour ought to have the fairest play,
You'll find
Corruption, envy, discontent, and faction,
Almost in every band: how many men
Have spent their blood in their dear country's service,
Yet now pine under want, while selfish slaves,
That even would cut their throats whom now they fawn on,
Like deadly locusts, eat the honey up,
Which those industrious bees so hardly toiled for!

_Cast. _ These precepts suit not with my active mind:
Methinks I would be busy.

_Pol. _ So would I.
Not loiter out my life at home, and know
No farther than one prospect gives me leave.

_Acast. _ Busy your minds then, study arts and men:
Learn how to value merit though in rags,
And scorn a proud ill-mannered knave in office.

_Enter_ SERINA, MONIMIA, _and_ FLORELLA.

_Ser. _ My lord, my father!

_Acast. _ Blessings on my child,
My little cherub! what hast thou to ask me?

_Ser. _ I bring you, sir, most glad and welcome news:
The young Chamont, whom you've so often wished for,
Is just arrived and entering.

_Acast. _ By my soul,
And all my honours, he's most dearly welcome;
Let me receive him like his father's friend.

_Enter_ CHAMONT.

Welcome, thou relict of the best-loved man!
Welcome from all the turmoils, and the hazards
Of certain danger, and uncertain fortune!
Welcome as happy tidings after fears!

_Cham. _ Words would but wrong the gratitude I owe you.
Should I begin to speak, my soul's so full
That I should talk of nothing else all day.

_Mon. _ My brother!

_Cham. _ Oh my sister! let me hold thee
Long in my arms. I've not beheld thy face
These many days; by night I've often seen thee
In gentle dreams, and satisfied my soul
With fancied joy, till morning cares awaked me. --
Another sister! sure it must be so;
Though, I remember well, I had but one:
But I feel something in my heart that prompts
And tells me she has claim and interest there.

_Acast. _ Young soldier, you've not only studied war;
Courtship, I see, has been your practice too,
And may not prove unwelcome to my daughter.

_Cham.