_ Suppose you should not,
brother?
Thomas Otway
No, you know better to what end Heaven made you;
know better how to manage youth and pleasure, than to let them die and
pall upon your hands. 'Tis me, 'tis only me you have barred your heart
against. My sufferings, my diligence, my sighs, complaints, and tears,
are of no power with your haughty nature: yet sure you might at least
vouchsafe to pity them, not shift me off with gross, thick, homespun
friendship, the common coin that passes betwixt worldly interests--must
that be my lot? Take it, ill-natured, take it; give it to him who would
waste his fortune for you; give it the man would fill your lap with
gold, court you with offers of vast rich possessions; give it the fool
that has nothing but his money to plead for him: love will have a much
nearer relation, or none. I ask for glorious happiness; you bid me
welcome to your friendship: it is like seating me at your side-table,
when I have the best pretence to your right hand at the feast. I love,
I dote, I am mad, and know no measure; nothing but extremes can give me
ease, the kindest love, or most provoking scorn.
Yet even your scorn would not perform the cure: it might indeed take
off the edge of hope, but damned despair will gnaw my heart for ever.
If then I am not odious to your eyes, if you have charity enough to
value the well-being of a man that holds you dearer than you can the
child your bowels are most fond of, by that sweet pledge of your first
softest love, I charm and here conjure you to pity the distracting
pangs of mine; pity my unquiet days and restless nights; pity the
frenzy that has half possessed my brain already, and makes me write to
you thus ravingly: the wretch in Bedlam is more at peace than I am; and
if I must never possess the heaven I wish for, my next desire is (and
the sooner the better) a clean-swept cell, a merciful keeper, and your
compassion when you find me there.
Think and be generous.
LETTER III.
Since you are going to quit the world[81] I think myself obliged, as
a member of that world, to use the best of my endeavours to divert
you from so ill-natured an inclination: therefore, by reason your
visits will take up so much of this day, I have debarred myself the
opportunity of waiting on you this afternoon, that I may take a time
you are more mistress of, and when you shall have more leisure to hear,
if it be possible for any arguments of mine to take place in a heart
I am afraid too much hardened against me. I must confess it may look
a little extraordinary for one under my circumstances to endeavour
the confirming your good opinion of the world, when it had been much
better for me, one of us had never seen it; for nature disposed me from
my creation to love, and my ill-fortune has condemned me to dote on
one who certainly could never have been deaf so long to so faithful a
passion had nature disposed her from her creation to hate anything but
me. I beg you to forgive this trifling, for I have so many thoughts of
this nature that 'tis impossible for me to take pen and ink in my hand
and keep them quiet, especially when I have the least pretence to let
you know you are the cause of the severest disquiets that ever touched
the heart of
OTWAY.
LETTER IV.
Could I see you without passion, or be absent from you without pain,
I need not beg your pardon for this renewing my vows, that I love you
more than health, or any happiness here or hereafter. Everything you
do is a new charm to me; and, though I have languished for seven long
tedious years of desire, jealously and despairing, yet every minute I
see you I still discover something new and more bewitching. Consider
how I love you; what would not I renounce or enterprise for you! I
must have you mine, or I am miserable, and nothing but knowing which
shall be the happy hour can make the rest of my life that are [is] to
come tolerable. Give me a word or two of comfort, or resolve never to
look with common goodness on me more, for I cannot bear a kind look,
and after it a cruel denial. This minute my heart aches for you; and,
if I cannot have a right in yours, I wish it would ache till I could
complain to you no longer.
Remember poor OTWAY.
LETTER V.
You cannot but be sensible that I am blind, or you would not so openly
discover what a ridiculous tool you make of me. I should be glad to
discover whose satisfaction I was sacrificed to this morning; for I
am sure your own ill-nature could not be guilty of inventing such an
injury to me, merely to try how much I could bear, were it not for
the sake of some ass that has the fortune to please you. In short,
I have made it the business of my life to do you service and please
you, if possible by any way to convince you of the unhappy love I
have for seven years toiled under; and your whole business is to pick
ill-natured conjectures out of my harmless freedom of conversation, to
vex and gall me with, as often as you are pleased to divert yourself
at the expense of my quiet. O thou tormenter! Could I think it were
jealousy, how should I humble myself to be justified! But I cannot
bear the thought of being made a property either of another man's good
fortune or the vanity of a woman that designs nothing but to plague me.
There may be means found, some time or other, to let you know your
mistaking.
LETTER VI.
You were pleased to send me word you would meet me in the Mall this
evening, and give me further satisfaction in the matter you were so
unkind to charge me with: I was there, but found you not; and therefore
beg of you, as you ever would wish yourself to be eased of the highest
torment it were possible for your nature to be sensible of, to let
me see you some time to-morrow, and send me word, by this bearer,
where, and at what hour, you will be so just as either to acquit or
condemn me; that I may, hereafter, for your sake, either bless all
your bewitching sex, or, as often as I henceforth think of you, curse
womankind for ever.
THE END.
"The excellent MERMAID SERIES. "--_Spectator. _
[Illustration]
FOOTNOTES:
[81] To leave the stage.
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THE ORPHAN;
OR,
_The Unhappy Marriage. _
A TRAGEDY,
IN FIVE ACTS.
BY THOMAS OTWAY.
CORRECTLY GIVEN,
AS PERFORMED AT THE THEATRES ROYAL.
With Remarks.
[Illustration]
London:
Printed by D. S. Maurice, Fenchurch-street;
SOLD BY
T. HUGHES, 35, LUDGATE STREET; J. BYSH, 52,
PATERNOSTER ROW; & J. CUMMING, DUBLIN.
REMARKS.
To the great merit of Miss O'Neil, in _Monimia_, we are indebted for
the revival of this tragedy, which was originally played at the Duke's
Theatre, in 1680; and long kept possession of the stage. The language
of this play is poetical and tender, and the incidents affecting; but,
amidst many beauties, there is great inconsistency[1].
Dr. Johnson observes,--"This is one of the few pieces that has pleased
for almost a century, through all the vicissitudes of dramatic fashion.
Of this play, nothing new can easily be said. It is a domestic tragedy,
drawn from middle life:--its whole power is upon the affections; for
it is not written with much comprehension of thought, or elegance of
expression. But, if the heart is interested, many other beauties may be
wanting; yet not be missed. "
[1] Many readers will, probably, exclaim with the critic, when he
first saw it,--"Oh! what an infinite deal of mischief would a farthing
rush-light have prevented! "
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
Drury-Lane, 1780. Covent Garden, 1815.
Castalio Mr. Reddish Mr. C. Kemble.
Acasto Mr. Packer Mr. Egerton.
Polydore Mr. Brereton Mr. Conway.
Chaplain Mr. Usher Mr. Chapman.
Ernesto Mr. Wrighten Mr. Jefferies.
Page Master Pulley Miss Prescott.
Chamont Mr. Smith Mr. Young.
Serina Miss Platt Miss Boyce.
Florella Mrs. Johnston Mrs. Seymour.
Monimia Miss Younge Miss O'Neil.
SCENE--Bohemia.
THE ORPHAN.
ACT THE FIRST.
SCENE I. A GARDEN.
_Enter Castalio, Polydore, and Page. _
_Cas. _ 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 lodg'd my spear,
The desperate savage rush'd within my force,
And bore me headlong with him down the rock.
_Pol. _ But then----
_Cas. _ Ay, then, my brother, my friend, Polydore,
Like Perseus mounted on his winged steed,
Came on, and down the dang'rous precipice leap'd
To save Castilio. --'Twas a godlike act!
_Pol. _ But when I came, I found you conqueror.
Oh! my heart danc'd, to see your danger past!
The heat and fury of the chase was cold,
And I had nothing in my mind but joy.
_Cas. _ 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 lov'd and valu'd when I'm old;
I would be busy in the world, and learn,
Not like a coarse and useless dunghill weed,
Fix'd to one spot, and rot just as I grow.
_Cas. _ 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 have duty very pow'rful 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?
_Cas. _ 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 heav'n.
And should I chance to touch it near, bear it
With all the suff'rance of a tender friend.
_Cas. _ 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?
_Cas. _ Suppose I should?
_Pol.
_ Suppose you should not, brother?
_Cas. _ You'd say, I must not.
_Pol. _ That would sound too roughly
Twixt friends and brothers, as we two are.
_Cas. _ Is love a fault?
_Pol. _ In one of us it may be----
What, if I love her?
_Cas. _ Then I must inform you
I lov'd her first, and cannot quit the claim;
But will preserve the birthright of my passion.
_Pol. _ You will?
_Cas. _ I will.
_Pol. _ No more; I've done.
_Cas. _ Why not?
_Pol. _ I told you, I had done.
But you, Castalio, would dispute it.
_Cas. _ No;
Not with my Polydore:--though I must own
My nature obstinate, and void of suff'rance;
I could not bear a rival in my friendship,
I am so much in love, and fond of thee.
_Pol. _ Yet you will break this friendship!
_Cas. _ Not for crowns.
_Pol. _ But for a toy you would, a woman's toy,
Unjust Castalio!
_Cas. _ Pr'ythee, where's my fault?
_Pol. _ You love Monimia.
_Cas. _ Yes.
_Pol. _ And you would kill me,
If I'm your rival?
_Cas. _ 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.
_Cas. _ Love her still;
Win, and enjoy her.
_Pol. _ Both of us cannot.
_Cas. _ No matter
Whose chance it prove; but let's not quarrel for't.
_Pol. _ You would not wed Monimia, would you?
_Cas. _ 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?
_Cas. _ Mere vanity, and silly dotage, all:--
No, let me live at large, and when I die----
_Pol. _ Who shall possess th' estate you leave?
_Cas. _ My friend,
If he survive me; if not, my king,
Who may bestow't again on some brave man,
Whose honesty and services deserve one.
_Pol. _ 'Tis kindly offer'd.
_Cas. _ 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?
_Cas. _ No matter whose.
_Pol. _ Were you not with her privately last night?
_Cas. _ I was; and should have met her here again.
The opportunity shall now be thine?
But have a care, by friendship I conjure thee,
That no false play be offer'd to thy brother.
Urge all thy powers to make thy passion prosper;
But wrong not mine.
_Pol. _ By heaven, I will not.
_Cas. _ If't prove thy fortune, Polydore, to conquer
(For thou hast all the arts of soft 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 pow'r, or wealthy cities pride;
Rather than wrong Castalio, I'd forget her.
[_exeunt Castalio and Polydore. _
_Enter Monimia. _
_Mon. _ Pass'd 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 tim'rous 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 wand'ring into cares. ----
Castalio! O Castalio! hast thou 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;
Perhaps I've been ungrateful. Here's money for you.
_Page. _ Madam, I'd serve you with all my soul.
_Mon. _ Tell me, Cordelio (for thou oft hast heard
Their friendly converse, and their bosom secrets),
Sometimes, at least, have they not talk'd of me?
_Page. _ O madam! very wickedly they have talk'd:
But I am afraid to name it; for, they say,
Boys must be whipp'd, that tell their masters' 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 with 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 prov'd;
But, as the one grew hot, the other cool'd,
And yielded to the frailty of his friend;
At last, after much struggling, 'twas resolv'd----
_Mon. _ What, good Cordelio?
_Page. _ Not to quarrel for you.
_Mon. _ I would not have 'em, by my dearest hopes;
I would not be the argument of strife.
But surely my Castalio won't forsake me,
And make a mock'ry of my easy love!
Went they together?
_Page. _ Yes, to seek you, madam.
Castalio promis'd 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 heighten'd the debate?
_Page. _ The fault was Polydore's.
Castalio play'd with love, and smiling show'd
The pleasure, not the pangs of his desire.
He said, no woman's smiles should buy his freedom;
And marriage is a mortifying thing. [_exit. _
_Mon. _ Then I am ruin'd! 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.
O, but I love him! There's the rock will wreck me!
Why was I made with all my sex's fondness,
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.
_Cas. _ 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!
_Cas. _ Madam!
_Mon. _ Have you purpos'd
To abuse me palpably? What means this usage?
Why am I left with Polydore alone?
_Cas. _ He best can tell you. Business of importance
Calls me away: I must attend my father.
_Mon. _ Will you then leave me thus?
_Cas. _ But for a moment.
_Mon. _ It has been otherwise: the time has been,
When business might have stay'd, and I been heard.
_Cas. _ 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 th' ill-natur'd 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 suffer'd yet for love disdain'd,
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 wander'd up and down
Forlorn and silent as his vassal beasts:
But when a heav'n-born maid, like you, appear'd,
Strange pleasures fill'd his eyes and fir'd his heart,
Unloos'd his tongue, and his first talk was love.
_Mon. _ The first created pair indeed were bless'd;
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.
_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 dy'd,
Whose ruin'd fortunes too expir'd with them,
Your father's pity and his bounty took me,
A poor and helpless orphan, to his care.
_Pol. _ 'Twas Heav'n ordain'd 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.
know better how to manage youth and pleasure, than to let them die and
pall upon your hands. 'Tis me, 'tis only me you have barred your heart
against. My sufferings, my diligence, my sighs, complaints, and tears,
are of no power with your haughty nature: yet sure you might at least
vouchsafe to pity them, not shift me off with gross, thick, homespun
friendship, the common coin that passes betwixt worldly interests--must
that be my lot? Take it, ill-natured, take it; give it to him who would
waste his fortune for you; give it the man would fill your lap with
gold, court you with offers of vast rich possessions; give it the fool
that has nothing but his money to plead for him: love will have a much
nearer relation, or none. I ask for glorious happiness; you bid me
welcome to your friendship: it is like seating me at your side-table,
when I have the best pretence to your right hand at the feast. I love,
I dote, I am mad, and know no measure; nothing but extremes can give me
ease, the kindest love, or most provoking scorn.
Yet even your scorn would not perform the cure: it might indeed take
off the edge of hope, but damned despair will gnaw my heart for ever.
If then I am not odious to your eyes, if you have charity enough to
value the well-being of a man that holds you dearer than you can the
child your bowels are most fond of, by that sweet pledge of your first
softest love, I charm and here conjure you to pity the distracting
pangs of mine; pity my unquiet days and restless nights; pity the
frenzy that has half possessed my brain already, and makes me write to
you thus ravingly: the wretch in Bedlam is more at peace than I am; and
if I must never possess the heaven I wish for, my next desire is (and
the sooner the better) a clean-swept cell, a merciful keeper, and your
compassion when you find me there.
Think and be generous.
LETTER III.
Since you are going to quit the world[81] I think myself obliged, as
a member of that world, to use the best of my endeavours to divert
you from so ill-natured an inclination: therefore, by reason your
visits will take up so much of this day, I have debarred myself the
opportunity of waiting on you this afternoon, that I may take a time
you are more mistress of, and when you shall have more leisure to hear,
if it be possible for any arguments of mine to take place in a heart
I am afraid too much hardened against me. I must confess it may look
a little extraordinary for one under my circumstances to endeavour
the confirming your good opinion of the world, when it had been much
better for me, one of us had never seen it; for nature disposed me from
my creation to love, and my ill-fortune has condemned me to dote on
one who certainly could never have been deaf so long to so faithful a
passion had nature disposed her from her creation to hate anything but
me. I beg you to forgive this trifling, for I have so many thoughts of
this nature that 'tis impossible for me to take pen and ink in my hand
and keep them quiet, especially when I have the least pretence to let
you know you are the cause of the severest disquiets that ever touched
the heart of
OTWAY.
LETTER IV.
Could I see you without passion, or be absent from you without pain,
I need not beg your pardon for this renewing my vows, that I love you
more than health, or any happiness here or hereafter. Everything you
do is a new charm to me; and, though I have languished for seven long
tedious years of desire, jealously and despairing, yet every minute I
see you I still discover something new and more bewitching. Consider
how I love you; what would not I renounce or enterprise for you! I
must have you mine, or I am miserable, and nothing but knowing which
shall be the happy hour can make the rest of my life that are [is] to
come tolerable. Give me a word or two of comfort, or resolve never to
look with common goodness on me more, for I cannot bear a kind look,
and after it a cruel denial. This minute my heart aches for you; and,
if I cannot have a right in yours, I wish it would ache till I could
complain to you no longer.
Remember poor OTWAY.
LETTER V.
You cannot but be sensible that I am blind, or you would not so openly
discover what a ridiculous tool you make of me. I should be glad to
discover whose satisfaction I was sacrificed to this morning; for I
am sure your own ill-nature could not be guilty of inventing such an
injury to me, merely to try how much I could bear, were it not for
the sake of some ass that has the fortune to please you. In short,
I have made it the business of my life to do you service and please
you, if possible by any way to convince you of the unhappy love I
have for seven years toiled under; and your whole business is to pick
ill-natured conjectures out of my harmless freedom of conversation, to
vex and gall me with, as often as you are pleased to divert yourself
at the expense of my quiet. O thou tormenter! Could I think it were
jealousy, how should I humble myself to be justified! But I cannot
bear the thought of being made a property either of another man's good
fortune or the vanity of a woman that designs nothing but to plague me.
There may be means found, some time or other, to let you know your
mistaking.
LETTER VI.
You were pleased to send me word you would meet me in the Mall this
evening, and give me further satisfaction in the matter you were so
unkind to charge me with: I was there, but found you not; and therefore
beg of you, as you ever would wish yourself to be eased of the highest
torment it were possible for your nature to be sensible of, to let
me see you some time to-morrow, and send me word, by this bearer,
where, and at what hour, you will be so just as either to acquit or
condemn me; that I may, hereafter, for your sake, either bless all
your bewitching sex, or, as often as I henceforth think of you, curse
womankind for ever.
THE END.
"The excellent MERMAID SERIES. "--_Spectator. _
[Illustration]
FOOTNOTES:
[81] To leave the stage.
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THE ORPHAN;
OR,
_The Unhappy Marriage. _
A TRAGEDY,
IN FIVE ACTS.
BY THOMAS OTWAY.
CORRECTLY GIVEN,
AS PERFORMED AT THE THEATRES ROYAL.
With Remarks.
[Illustration]
London:
Printed by D. S. Maurice, Fenchurch-street;
SOLD BY
T. HUGHES, 35, LUDGATE STREET; J. BYSH, 52,
PATERNOSTER ROW; & J. CUMMING, DUBLIN.
REMARKS.
To the great merit of Miss O'Neil, in _Monimia_, we are indebted for
the revival of this tragedy, which was originally played at the Duke's
Theatre, in 1680; and long kept possession of the stage. The language
of this play is poetical and tender, and the incidents affecting; but,
amidst many beauties, there is great inconsistency[1].
Dr. Johnson observes,--"This is one of the few pieces that has pleased
for almost a century, through all the vicissitudes of dramatic fashion.
Of this play, nothing new can easily be said. It is a domestic tragedy,
drawn from middle life:--its whole power is upon the affections; for
it is not written with much comprehension of thought, or elegance of
expression. But, if the heart is interested, many other beauties may be
wanting; yet not be missed. "
[1] Many readers will, probably, exclaim with the critic, when he
first saw it,--"Oh! what an infinite deal of mischief would a farthing
rush-light have prevented! "
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
Drury-Lane, 1780. Covent Garden, 1815.
Castalio Mr. Reddish Mr. C. Kemble.
Acasto Mr. Packer Mr. Egerton.
Polydore Mr. Brereton Mr. Conway.
Chaplain Mr. Usher Mr. Chapman.
Ernesto Mr. Wrighten Mr. Jefferies.
Page Master Pulley Miss Prescott.
Chamont Mr. Smith Mr. Young.
Serina Miss Platt Miss Boyce.
Florella Mrs. Johnston Mrs. Seymour.
Monimia Miss Younge Miss O'Neil.
SCENE--Bohemia.
THE ORPHAN.
ACT THE FIRST.
SCENE I. A GARDEN.
_Enter Castalio, Polydore, and Page. _
_Cas. _ 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 lodg'd my spear,
The desperate savage rush'd within my force,
And bore me headlong with him down the rock.
_Pol. _ But then----
_Cas. _ Ay, then, my brother, my friend, Polydore,
Like Perseus mounted on his winged steed,
Came on, and down the dang'rous precipice leap'd
To save Castilio. --'Twas a godlike act!
_Pol. _ But when I came, I found you conqueror.
Oh! my heart danc'd, to see your danger past!
The heat and fury of the chase was cold,
And I had nothing in my mind but joy.
_Cas. _ 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 lov'd and valu'd when I'm old;
I would be busy in the world, and learn,
Not like a coarse and useless dunghill weed,
Fix'd to one spot, and rot just as I grow.
_Cas. _ 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 have duty very pow'rful 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?
_Cas. _ 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 heav'n.
And should I chance to touch it near, bear it
With all the suff'rance of a tender friend.
_Cas. _ 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?
_Cas. _ Suppose I should?
_Pol.
_ Suppose you should not, brother?
_Cas. _ You'd say, I must not.
_Pol. _ That would sound too roughly
Twixt friends and brothers, as we two are.
_Cas. _ Is love a fault?
_Pol. _ In one of us it may be----
What, if I love her?
_Cas. _ Then I must inform you
I lov'd her first, and cannot quit the claim;
But will preserve the birthright of my passion.
_Pol. _ You will?
_Cas. _ I will.
_Pol. _ No more; I've done.
_Cas. _ Why not?
_Pol. _ I told you, I had done.
But you, Castalio, would dispute it.
_Cas. _ No;
Not with my Polydore:--though I must own
My nature obstinate, and void of suff'rance;
I could not bear a rival in my friendship,
I am so much in love, and fond of thee.
_Pol. _ Yet you will break this friendship!
_Cas. _ Not for crowns.
_Pol. _ But for a toy you would, a woman's toy,
Unjust Castalio!
_Cas. _ Pr'ythee, where's my fault?
_Pol. _ You love Monimia.
_Cas. _ Yes.
_Pol. _ And you would kill me,
If I'm your rival?
_Cas. _ 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.
_Cas. _ Love her still;
Win, and enjoy her.
_Pol. _ Both of us cannot.
_Cas. _ No matter
Whose chance it prove; but let's not quarrel for't.
_Pol. _ You would not wed Monimia, would you?
_Cas. _ 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?
_Cas. _ Mere vanity, and silly dotage, all:--
No, let me live at large, and when I die----
_Pol. _ Who shall possess th' estate you leave?
_Cas. _ My friend,
If he survive me; if not, my king,
Who may bestow't again on some brave man,
Whose honesty and services deserve one.
_Pol. _ 'Tis kindly offer'd.
_Cas. _ 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?
_Cas. _ No matter whose.
_Pol. _ Were you not with her privately last night?
_Cas. _ I was; and should have met her here again.
The opportunity shall now be thine?
But have a care, by friendship I conjure thee,
That no false play be offer'd to thy brother.
Urge all thy powers to make thy passion prosper;
But wrong not mine.
_Pol. _ By heaven, I will not.
_Cas. _ If't prove thy fortune, Polydore, to conquer
(For thou hast all the arts of soft 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 pow'r, or wealthy cities pride;
Rather than wrong Castalio, I'd forget her.
[_exeunt Castalio and Polydore. _
_Enter Monimia. _
_Mon. _ Pass'd 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 tim'rous 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 wand'ring into cares. ----
Castalio! O Castalio! hast thou 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;
Perhaps I've been ungrateful. Here's money for you.
_Page. _ Madam, I'd serve you with all my soul.
_Mon. _ Tell me, Cordelio (for thou oft hast heard
Their friendly converse, and their bosom secrets),
Sometimes, at least, have they not talk'd of me?
_Page. _ O madam! very wickedly they have talk'd:
But I am afraid to name it; for, they say,
Boys must be whipp'd, that tell their masters' 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 with 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 prov'd;
But, as the one grew hot, the other cool'd,
And yielded to the frailty of his friend;
At last, after much struggling, 'twas resolv'd----
_Mon. _ What, good Cordelio?
_Page. _ Not to quarrel for you.
_Mon. _ I would not have 'em, by my dearest hopes;
I would not be the argument of strife.
But surely my Castalio won't forsake me,
And make a mock'ry of my easy love!
Went they together?
_Page. _ Yes, to seek you, madam.
Castalio promis'd 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 heighten'd the debate?
_Page. _ The fault was Polydore's.
Castalio play'd with love, and smiling show'd
The pleasure, not the pangs of his desire.
He said, no woman's smiles should buy his freedom;
And marriage is a mortifying thing. [_exit. _
_Mon. _ Then I am ruin'd! 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.
O, but I love him! There's the rock will wreck me!
Why was I made with all my sex's fondness,
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.
_Cas. _ 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!
_Cas. _ Madam!
_Mon. _ Have you purpos'd
To abuse me palpably? What means this usage?
Why am I left with Polydore alone?
_Cas. _ He best can tell you. Business of importance
Calls me away: I must attend my father.
_Mon. _ Will you then leave me thus?
_Cas. _ But for a moment.
_Mon. _ It has been otherwise: the time has been,
When business might have stay'd, and I been heard.
_Cas. _ 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 th' ill-natur'd 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 suffer'd yet for love disdain'd,
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 wander'd up and down
Forlorn and silent as his vassal beasts:
But when a heav'n-born maid, like you, appear'd,
Strange pleasures fill'd his eyes and fir'd his heart,
Unloos'd his tongue, and his first talk was love.
_Mon. _ The first created pair indeed were bless'd;
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.
_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 dy'd,
Whose ruin'd fortunes too expir'd with them,
Your father's pity and his bounty took me,
A poor and helpless orphan, to his care.
_Pol. _ 'Twas Heav'n ordain'd 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.
