No More Learning

_Cham. _ Hist, hist, Sir Gravity, a word with you.

_Chap. _ With me, sir?

_Cham. _ If you're at leisure, sir, we'll waste an hour;
'Tis yet too soon to sleep, and 'twill be charity
To lend your conversation to a stranger.

_Chap. _ Sir, you're a soldier?

_Cham. _ Yes.

_Chap. _ I love a soldier;

And had been one myself, but my parents would make me what you
see me: yet I'm honest, for all I wear black.

_Cham. _ And that's a wonder.
Have you had long dependence on this family?

_Chap. _ I have not thought it so, because my time's
Spent pleasantly. My lord's not haughty nor imperious,
Nor I gravely whimsical; he has good nature,
And I have manners:

His sons too are civil to me, because I do not pretend to be
wiser than they are; I meddle with no man's business but my
own; I rise in a morning early, study moderately, eat and drink
cheerfully, live soberly, take my innocent pleasures freely;
so meet with respect, and am not the jest of the family.

_Cham. _ I'm glad you are so happy. --
A pleasant fellow this, and may be useful. [_Aside. _
Knew you my father, the old Chamont?

_Chap. _ I did, and was most sorry when we lost him.

_Cham. _ Why? didst thou love him?

_Chap. _ Everybody loved him; besides, he was my master's friend.

_Cham. _ I could embrace thee for that very notion.
If thou didst love my father, I could think
Thou wouldst not be an enemy to me.

_Chap. _ I can be no man's foe.

_Cham. _ Then pr'ythee tell me,
Think'st thou the Lord Castalio loves my sister?
Nay, never start. Come, come, I know thy office
Opens thee all the secrets of the family.
Then, if thou'rt honest, use this freedom kindly.

_Chap. _ Loves your sister!

_Cham. _ Ay, loves her.

_Chap. _ Sir, I never asked him; and wonder you should ask it me.

_Cham. _ Nay, but thou'rt an hypocrite; is there not one
Of all thy tribe that's honest in your schools?
The pride of your superiors makes ye slaves:
Ye all live loathsome, sneaking, servile lives;
Not free enough to practise generous truth,
Though ye pretend to teach it to the world.

_Chap. _ I would deserve a better thought from you.

_Cham. _ If thou wouldst have me not contemn thy office
And character, think all thy brethren knaves,
Thy trade a cheat, and thou its worst professor,
Inform me; for I tell thee, priest, I'll know.

_Chap. _ Either he loves her, or he much has wronged her.

_Cham. _ How, wronged her! have a care; for this may lay
A scene of mischief to undo us all.
But tell me--wronged her, saidst thou?

_Chap. _ Ay, sir, wronged her.

_Cham. _ This is a secret worth a monarch's fortune:
What shall I give thee for't? thou dear physician
Of sickly souls, unfold this riddle to me,
And comfort mine--

_Chap. _ I would hide nothing from you willingly.

_Cham. _ Nay, then again thou'rt honest. Wouldst thou tell me?

_Chap. _ Yes, if I durst.

_Cham. _ Why, what affrights thee?

_Chap. _ You do,
Who are not to be trusted with the secret.

_Cham. _ Why, I am no fool.

_Chap. _ So, indeed, you say.

_Cham. _ Pr'ythee, be serious then.

_Chap. _ You see I am so,
And hardly shall be mad enough to-night
To trust you with my ruin.

_Cham. _ Art thou then
So far concerned in't? What has been thy office?
Curse on that formal steady villain's face!
Just so do all bawds look; nay, bawds, they say,
Can pray upon occasion, talk of Heaven,
Turn up their goggling eye-balls, rail at vice,
Dissemble, lie, and preach like any priest.
Art thou a bawd?

_Chap. _ Sir, I'm not often used thus.

_Cham. _ Be just then.

_Chap. _ So I shall be to the trust
That's laid upon me.

_Cham. _ By the reverenced soul
Of that great honest man that gave me being,
Tell me but what thou know'st concerns my honour,
And if I e'er reveal it to thy wrong,
May this good sword ne'er do me right in battle!
May I ne'er know that blessed peace of mind,
That dwells in good and pious men, like thee!

_Chap. _ I see your temper's moved, and I will trust you.

_Cham. _ Wilt thou?

_Chap. _ I will; but if it ever 'scape you--

_Cham. _ It never shall.

_Chap. _ Swear then.

_Cham. _ I do, by all
That's dear to me, by the honour of my name,
And by that Power I serve, it never shall.

_Chap. _ Then this good day, when all the house was busy,
When mirth and kind rejoicing filled each room,
As I was walking in the grove I met them.

_Cham. _ What, met them in the grove together? tell me,
How? walking, standing, sitting, lying? ha!

_Chap. _ I, by their own appointment, met them there;
Received their marriage-vows, and joined their hands.

_Cham. _ How! married!

_Chap. _ Yes, sir.

_Cham. _ Then my soul's at peace:
But why would you delay so long to give it?

_Chap. _ Not knowing what reception it may find
With old Acasto; may be I was too cautious
To trust the secret from me.

_Cham. _ What's the cause
I cannot guess: though 'tis my sister's honour,
I do not like this marriage,
Huddled i' the dark, and done at too much venture:
The business looks with an unlucky face.
Keep still the secret; for it ne'er shall 'scape me,
Not even to them, the new-matched pair. Farewell.
Believe my truth, and know me for thy friend. [_Exeunt. _

_Re-enter_ CASTALIO _and_ MONIMIA.

_Cast. _ Young Chamont, and the chaplain! sure 'tis they!
No matter what's contrived, or who consulted,
Since my Monimia's mine; though this sad look
Seems no good-boding omen to her bliss;
Else, pr'ythee, tell me why that look cast down?
Why that sad sigh, as if thy heart were breaking?

_Mon. _ Castalio, I am thinking what we've done.
The heavenly powers were sure displeased to-day;
For at the ceremony as we stood,
And as your hand was kindly joined with mine,
As the good priest pronounced the sacred words,
Passion grew big, and I could not forbear;
Tears drowned my eyes, and trembling seized my soul.
What should that mean?

_Cast. _ Oh, thou art tender all;
Gentle and kind as sympathising nature!
When a sad story has been told, I've seen
Thy little breasts, with soft compassion swelled,
Shove up and down, and heave like dying birds:
But now let fear be banished, think no more
Of danger, for there's safety in my arms;
Let them receive thee: Heaven, grow jealous now!
Sure she's too good for any mortal creature;
I could grow wild, and praise thee even to madness.
But wherefore do I dally with my bliss?
The night's far spent, and day draws on apace;
To bed, my love, and wake till I come thither.

_Re-enter_ POLYDORE, _behind_.

_Pol. _ So hot, my brother? [_Aside. _

_Mon. _ 'Twill be impossible:
You know your father's chamber's next to mine,
And the least noise will certainly alarm him.

_Cast. _ Impossible! impossible! alas!
Is't possible to live one hour without thee?
Let me behold those eyes, they'll tell me truth.
Hast thou no longing? Art thou still the same
Cold, icy virgin? No; thou'rt altered quite.
Haste, haste to bed, and let loose all thy wishes.

_Mon. _ 'Tis but one night, my lord; I pray be ruled.

_Cast. _ Try if thou'st power to stop a flowing tide,
Or in a tempest make the seas be calm;
And, when that's done, I'll conquer my desires.
No more, my blessing. What shall be the sign?
When shall I come? for to my joys I'll steal,
As if I ne'er had paid my freedom for them.

_Mon. _ Just three soft strokes upon the chamber-door;
And at that signal you shall gain admittance:
But speak not the least word; for if you should,
'Tis surely heard, and all will be betrayed.

_Cast. _ Oh! doubt it not, Monimia; our joys
Shall be as silent as the ecstatic bliss
Of souls that by intelligence converse:
Immortal pleasures shall our senses drown;
Thought shall be lost, and every power dissolved:
Away, my love! first take this kiss. Now haste.
I long for that to come, yet grudge each minute past.

[_Exit_ MONIMIA.

My brother wandering too so late this way!

_Pol. _ [_Coming forward_]. Castalio!

_Cast. _ My Polydore, how dost thou?
How does our father; is he well recovered?

_Pol. _ I left him happily reposed to rest;
He's still as gay as if his life were young.
But how does fair Monimia?

_Cast. _ Doubtless well.
A cruel beauty with her conquests pleased
Is always joyful, and her mind in health.

_Pol. _ Is she the same Monimia still she was?
May we not hope she's made of mortal mould?

_Cast. _ She's not woman else:
Though I'm grown weary of this tedious hoping;
We've in a barren desert strayed too long.

_Pol.
_ Yet may relief be unexpected found,
And love's sweet manna cover all the field.
Met ye to-day?

_Cast. _ No; she has still avoided me.
Her brother too is jealous of her grown,
And has been hinting something to my father.
I wish I'd never meddled with the matter;
And would enjoin thee, Polydore--

_Pol. _ To what?

_Cast. _ To leave this peevish beauty to herself.

_Pol. _ What, quit my love? as soon I'd quit my post
In fight, and like a coward run away.
No, by my stars! I'll chase her till she yields
To me, or meets her rescue in another.

_Cast. _ Nay, she has beauty that might shake the leagues
Of mighty kings, and set the world at odds;
But I have wondrous reasons on my side
That would persuade thee, were they known.

_Pol. _ Then speak them.
What are they? came ye to her window here
To learn them now? Castalio, have a care;
Use honest dealing with your friend and brother.
Believe me, I'm not with my love so blinded,
But can discern your purpose to abuse me.
Quit your pretences to her.

_Cast. _ Grant I do;
You love capitulation, Polydore,
And but upon conditions would oblige me.

_Pol. _ You say, you've reasons; why are they concealed?

_Cast. _ To-morrow I may tell you:
It is a matter of such circumstance,
As I must well consult ere I reveal.
But, pr'ythee, cease to think I would abuse thee,
Till more be known.

_Pol. _ When you, Castalio, cease
To meet Monimia unknown to me,
And then deny it slavishly, I'll cease
To think Castalio faithless to his friend.
Did I not see you part this very moment?

_Cast. _ It seems you've watched me then?

_Pol. _ I scorn the office.

_Cast. _ Pr'ythee avoid a thing thou mayst repent.

_Pol. _ That is, henceforward making leagues with you.

_Cast. _ Nay, if you're angry, Polydore, good night. [_Exit. _

_Pol. _ Good-night, Castalio, if you're in such haste.
He little thinks I've overheard the appointment,
But to his chamber's gone to wait awhile,
Then come and take possession of my love.
This is the utmost point of all my hopes;
Or now she must or never can be mine.
Oh, for a means now how to counterplot,
And disappoint this happy elder brother!
In every thing we do or undertake,
He soars above me, mount what height I can,
And keeps the start he got of me in birth.
Cordelio!

_Re-enter_ Page.

_Page. _ My lord.

_Pol. _ Come hither, boy.
Thou hast a pretty, forward, lying face,
And mayst in time expect preferment; canst thou
Pretend to secrecy, cajole and flatter
Thy master's follies, and assist his pleasures?

_Page. _ My lord, I could do anything for you,
And ever be a very faithful boy.
Command, whate'er's your pleasure I'll observe,
Be it to run, or watch, or to convey
A letter to a beauteous lady's bosom:
At least I am not dull, and soon should learn.

_Pol. _ 'Tis pity then thou shouldst not be employed.
Go to my brother; he's in's chamber now
Undressing, and preparing for his rest;
Find out some means to keep him up awhile
Tell him a pretty story that may please
His ear; invent a tale, no matter what;
If he should ask of me, tell him I'm gone
To bed, and sent you there to know his pleasure,
Whether he'll hunt to-morrow. --Well said, Polydore;
Dissemble with thy brother. --That's one point;
But do not leave him till he's in his bed:
Or if he chance to walk again this way,
Follow and do not quit him, but seem fond
To do him little offices of service.
Perhaps at last it may offend him; then
Retire, and wait till I come in. Away:
Succeed in this, and be employed again.

_Page. _ Doubt not, my lord: he has been always kind
To me; would often set me on his knees;
Then give me sweetmeats, call me pretty boy,
And ask me what the maids talked of at nights.

_Pol. _ Run quickly then, and prosperous be thy wishes! [_Exit_ PAGE.
Here I'm alone, and fit for mischief; now
To cheat this brother, will't be honest that?
I heard the sign she ordered him to give.
O for the art of Proteus, but to change
The happy Polydore to blest Castalio!
She's not so well acquainted with him yet,
But I may fit her arms as well as he.
Then when I'm happily possessed of more
Than sense can think, all loosened into joy,
To hear my disappointed brother come,
And give the unregarded signal--oh,
What a malicious pleasure will that be!
"Just three soft strokes against the chamber-door:
But speak not the least word; for if you should,
'Tis surely heard, and we are both betrayed. "
How I adore a mistress that contrives
With care to lay the business of her joys!
One that has wit to charm the very soul,
And give a double relish to delight!
Blest Heaven, assist me but in this dear hour,
And my kind stars be but propitious now,
Dispose of me hereafter as you please!
Monimia! Monimia! [_Gives the sign. _

_Flor. _ [_At the window. _] Who's there?

_Pol. _ 'Tis I.

_Flor. _ My Lord Castalio?

_Pol. _ The same.
How does my love, my dear Monimia?

_Flor. _ Oh!
She wonders much at your unkind delay;
You've stayed so long, that at each little noise
The wind but makes, she asks if you are coming.

_Pol. _ Tell her I'm here, and let the door be opened.

[FLORELLA _retires_.

Now boast, Castalio; triumph now, and tell
Thyself strange stories of a promised bliss! [_The door is unbolted. _
It opens: ha! what means my trembling flesh?
Limbs, do your office and support me well;
Bear me to her, then fail me if you can. [_Exit. _

_Re-enter_ CASTALIO _and_ Page.

_Page. _ Indeed, my lord, 'twill be a lovely morning;
Pray let us hunt.

_Cast. _ Go, you're an idle prattler.
I'll stay at home to-morrow: if your lord
Thinks fit, he may command my hounds. Go, leave me;
I must to bed.

_Page. _ I'll wait upon your lordship,
If you think fit, and sing you to repose.

_Cast. _ No, my kind boy, the night is too far wasted;
My senses too are quite disrobed of thought,
And ready all with me to go to rest.
Good-night: commend me to my brother.

_Page. _ Oh! you never heard the last new song I learnt; it is
the finest, prettiest song indeed, of my lord and my lady you
know who, that were caught together, you know where. My lord,
indeed, it is.

_Cast. _ You must be whipped, youngster, if you get such songs
as those are. What means this boy's impertinence to-night?

_Page. _ Why, what must I sing, pray, my dear lord?

_Cast. _ Psalms, child, psalms.

_Page. _ Oh dear me! boys that go to school learn psalms; but
pages, that are better bred, sing lampoons.

_Cast. _ Well, leave me; I'm weary.

_Page. _ Oh! but you promised me, last time I told you what
colour my Lady Monimia's stockings were of, and that she
gartered them above the knee, that you would give me a little
horse to go a-hunting upon; so you did. I'll tell you no more
stories, except you keep your word with me.

_Cast. _ Well, go, you trifler, and to-morrow ask me.

_Page. _ Indeed, my lord, I can't abide to leave you.

_Cast. _ Why, wert thou instructed to attend me?

_Page. _ No, no, indeed, indeed, my lord, I was not; But I know
what I know.

_Cast. _ What dost thou know? Death! what can all this mean?

_Page. _ Oh! I know who loves somebody.

_Cast. _ What's that to me, boy?

_Page. _ Nay, I know who loves you too.

_Cast. _ That is a wonder; pr'ythee tell it me.

_Page. _ That--'tis--I know who--but will you give me the horse
then?

_Cast. _ I will, my child.

_Page. _ It is my Lady Monimia, look you; but don't you tell
her I told you: she'll give me no more playthings then, I heard
her say so as she lay a-bed, man.

_Cast. _ Talked she of me when in her bed, Cordelio?

_Page. _ Yes, and I sung her the song you made too; and she did
so sigh, and so look with her eyes, and her breasts did so lift
up and down; I could have found in my heart to have beat them,
for they made me ashamed.

_Cast. _ Hark, what's that noise? Take this, begone, and leave me.
You knave, you little flatterer, get you gone. [_Exit_ Page.
Surely it was a noise. Hist! --only fancy;
For all is hushed, as Nature were retired,
And the perpetual motion standing still,
So much she from her work appears to cease,
And every warring element's at peace;
All the wild herds are in their coverts couched;
The fishes to their banks or ooze repaired,
And to the murmurs of the waters sleep;
The feeling air's at rest, and feels[21] no noise,
Except of some soft breaths among the trees,
Rocking the harmless birds that rest upon them.
'Tis now that, guided by my love, I go
To take possession of Monimia's arms.
Sure Polydore's by this time gone to bed.
At midnight thus the usurer steals untracked,
To make a visit to his hoarded gold,
And feast his eyes upon the shining mammon. [_Knocks. _
She hears me not; sure she already sleeps;
Her wishes could not brook my long delay,
And her poor heart has beat itself to rest. [_Knocks again. _
Monimia! my angel--ha! --not yet--
How long's the shortest[22] moment of delay
To a heart impatient of its pangs, like mine,
In sight of ease, and panting to the goal!
Once more--[_Knocks again. _

_Flor. _ [_At the window. _] Who's there,
That comes thus rudely to disturb our rest?

_Cast. _ 'Tis I.

_Flor. _ Who are you? what's your name?

_Cast. _ Suppose
The Lord Castalio.

_Flor. _ I know you not.
The Lord Castalio has no business here.

_Cast.