No More Learning

_ Ha!

_Cham. _ What, alter'd? does your courage fail you?
Now, by my father's soul, the witch was honest.
Answer me, if thou hast not lost them
Thy honour at a sordid game?

_Mon. _ I will,
I must, so hardly my misfortune loads me:--
That both have offer'd me their love's most true.

_Cham. _ And 'tis as true too they have both undone thee.

_Mon. _ Though they both with earnest vows
Have press'd my heart, if e'er in thought I yielded
To any but Castalio----

_Cham. _ But Castalio!

_Mon. _ Still will you cross the line of my discourse.
Yes, I confess that he hath won my soul
By gen'rous love and honourable vows,
Which he this day appointed to complete,
And make himself by holy marriage mine.

_Cham. _ Art thou then spotless? hast thou still preserv'd
Thy virtue white, without a blot, untainted?

_Mon. _ When I'm unchaste, may heaven reject my prayers;
O more, to make me wretched, may you know it!

_Cham. _ Oh then, Monimia, art thou dearer to me
Than all the comforts ever yet bless'd man.
But let not marriage bait thee to thy ruin.
Trust not a man; we are by nature false,
Dissembling, subtle, cruel, and unconstant:
When a man talks of love, with caution trust him;
But if he swears, he'll certainly deceive thee.
I charge thee, let no more Castalio sooth thee;
Avoid it, as thou wouldst preserve the peace
Of a poor brother, to whose soul thou'rt precious.

_Mon. _ I will.

_Cham. _ Appear as cold, when next you meet, as great ones,
When merit begs; then shalt thou see how soon
His heart will cool, and all his pains grow easy. [_exit. _

_Mon. _ Yes, I will try him, torture him severely;
For, O Castalio, thou too much hast wrong'd me,
In leaving me to Polydore's ill usage.
He comes; and now, for once, O Love, stand neuter,
Whilst a hard part's perform'd; for I must tempt,
Wound, his soft nature, though my heart aches for't.

_Re-enter Castalio. _

_Cas. _ Monimia, my angel! 'twas not kind
To leave me here alone.

_Re-enter Polydore, with Page, at the door. _

_Pol. _ Here place yourself, and watch my brother thoroughly;
Pass not one circumstance without remark.
[_apart to Page, and exit. _

_Cas. _ When thou art from me, every place is desert,
And I, methinks, am savage and forlorn:
Thy presence only 'tis can make me blest,
Heal my unquiet mind, and tune my soul.

_Mon. _ O the bewitching tongues of faithless men!
'Tis thus the false hyena makes her moan,
To draw the pitying traveller to her den:
Your sex are so, such false dissemblers all;
With sighs and plaints y' entice poor women's hearts,
And all that pity you are made your prey.

_Cas. _ What means my love? Oh, how have I deserv'd
This language from the sovereign of my joys?
Stop, stop, these tears, Monimia, for they fall
Like baneful dew from a distemper'd sky;
I feel 'em chill me to my very heart.

_Mon. _ Oh, you are false, Castalio, most forsworn!
Attempt no further to delude my faith;
My heart is fix'd, and you shall shake't no more.

_Cas. _ Who told you so? what hell-bred villain durst
Profane the sacred business of my love?

_Mon. _ Your brother, knowing on what terms I'm here,
Th' unhappy object of your father's charity,
Licentiously discours'd to me of love,
And durst affront me with his brutal passion.

_Cas. _ 'Tis I have been to blame, and only I;
False to my brother, and unjust to thee.
For, oh! he loves thee too, and this day own'd it,
Tax'd me with mine, and claim'd a right above me.

_Mon. _ And was your love so very tame, to shrink?
Or, rather than lose him, abandon me?

_Cas. _ I, knowing him precipitate and rash,
Seem'd to comply with his unruly will;
Lest he in rage might have our loves betray'd,
And I for ever had Monimia lost.

_Mon. _ Could you then, did you, can you, own it too?
'Twas poorly done, unworthy of yourself!
And I can never think you meant me fair.

_Cas. _ Is this Monimia? Surely, no! till now
I ever thought her dove-like, soft, and kind.
Who trusts his heart with woman's surely lost:
You were made fair on purpose to undo us,
While greedily we snatch th' alluring bait,
And ne'er distrust the poison that it hides.

_Mon. _ When love, ill-plac'd, would find a means to break--

_Cas. _ It never wants pretences or excuse.

_Mon. _ Man therefore was a lord-like creature made,
Rough as the winds, and as inconstant too:
A lofty aspect given him for command;
Easily soften'd when he would betray.
Like conqu'ring tyrants, you our breasts invade;
But soon you find new conquests out, and leave
The ravag'd province ruinate and waste.
If so, Castalio, you have serv'd my heart,
I find that desolation's settled there,
And I shall ne'er recover peace again.

_Cas. _ Who can hear this and bear an equal mind?
Since you will drive me from you, I must go:
But, O Monimia! when thou hast banish'd me,
No creeping slave, though tractable and dull
As artful woman for her ends would choose,
Shall ever dote as I have done.

_Mon. _ Castalio, stay! we must not part. I find
My rage ebbs out, and love flows in apace.
These little quarrels love must needs forgive.
Oh! charm me with the music of thy tongue,
I'm ne'er so blest as when I hear thy vows,
And listen to the language of thy heart.

_Cas. _ Where am I? Surely, Paradise is round me!
Sweets planted by the hand of heaven grow here,
And every sense is full of thy perfection.
Sure, framing thee, heaven took unusual care; }
As its own beauty it design'd thee fair, }
And form'd thee by the best lov'd angel there. } [_exeunt. _




ACT THE THIRD.


SCENE I. A GARDEN.

_Enter Polydore and Page. _

_Pol. _ Were they so kind? Express it to me all
In words; 'twill make me think I saw it too.

_Page. _ At first I thought they had been mortal foes:
Monimia rag'd, Castalio grew disturb'd:
Each thought the other wrong'd; yet both so haughty,
They scorn'd submission, though love all the while
The rebel play'd, and scarce could be contain'd.

_Pol. _ But what succeeded?

_Page. _ Oh, 'twas wondrous pretty!
For of a sudden all the storm was past:
A gentle calm of love succeeded it:
Monimia sigh'd and blush'd; Castalio swore;
As you, my lord, I well remember, did
To my young sister, in the orange grove,
When I was first preferr'd to be your page.

_Pol. _ Boy, go to your chamber, and prepare your lute.
[_exit Page. _
Happy Castalio! now, by my great soul,
My ambitious soul, that languishes to glory,
I'll have her yet; by my best hopes, I will;
She shall be mine, in spite of all her arts.
But for Castalio, why was I refus'd?
Has he supplanted me by some foul play?
Traduc'd my honour? death! he durst not do't.
It must be so: we parted, and he met her,
Half to compliance brought by me; surpris'd
Her sinking virtue, till she yielded quite.
So poachers pick up tir'd game,
While the fair hunter's cheated of his prey.
Boy!

_Enter a Servant. _

_Serv. _ Oh, the unhappiest tidings tongue e'er told!

_Pol. _ The matter?

_Serv. _ Oh! your father, my good master,
As with his guests he sat in mirth rais'd high,
And chas'd the goblet round the joyful board,
A sudden trembling seiz'd on all his limbs;
His eyes distorted grew, his visage pale,
His speech forsook him, life itself seem'd fled,
And all his friends are waiting now about him.

_Enter Acasto and Attendants. _

_Acas. _ Support me, give me air, I'll yet recover.
'Twas but a slip decaying nature made;
For she grows weary near her journey's end.
Where are my sons? come near, my Polydore!
Your brother--where's Castalio?

_Serv. _ My lord,
I've search'd, as you commanded, all the house!
He and Monimia are not to be found.

_Acas. _ Not to be found? then where are all my friends?
'Tis well--
I hope they'll pardon an unhappy fault
My unmannerly infirmity has made!
Death could not come in a more welcome hour;
For I'm prepar'd to meet him; and, methinks,
Would live and die with all my friends about me.

_Enter Castalio. _

_Cas. _ Angels preserve my dearest father's life!
Oh! may he live till time itself decay,
Till good men wish him dead, or I offend him!

_Acas. _ Thank you, Castalio: give me both your hands.
So now, methinks,
I appear as great as Hercules himself,
Supported by the pillars he has rais'd.

_Enter Serina. _

_Ser. _ My father!

_Acas. _ My heart's darling!

_Ser. _ Let my knees
Fix to the earth. Ne'er let my eyes have rest,
But wake and weep, till heaven restore my father.

_Acas. _ Rise to my arms, and thy kind pray'rs are answer'd.
For thou'rt a wondrous extract of all goodness;
Born for my joy, and no pain's felt when near thee.
Chamont!

_Enter Chamont. _

_Cham. _ My lord, may't prove not an unlucky omen!
Many I see are waiting round about you,
And I am come to ask a blessing too.

_Acas. _ May'st thou be happy!

_Cham. _ Where?

_Acas. _ In all thy wishes.

_Cham. _ Confirm me so, and make this fair one mine:
I am unpractis'd in the trade of courtship,
And know not how to deal love out with art:
Onsets in love seem best like those in war,
Fierce, resolute, and done with all the force;
So I would open my whole heart at once,
And pour out the abundance of my soul.

_Acas. _ What says Serina? canst thou love a soldier?
One born to honour, and to honour bred?
One that has learn'd to treat e'en foes with kindness,
To wrong no good man's fame, nor praise himself?

_Ser. _ Oh! name not love, for that's ally'd to joy;
And joy must be a stranger to my heart,
When you're in danger. May Chamont's good fortune
Render him lovely to some happier maid!
Whilst I, at friendly distance, see him blest,
Praise the kind gods, and wonder at his virtues.

_Acas. _ Chamont, pursue her, conquer, and possess her,
And, as my son, a third of all my fortune
Shall be thy lot.
Chamont, you told me of some doubts that press'd you:
Are you yet satisfy'd that I'm your friend?

_Cham. _ My lord, I would not lose that satisfaction,
For any blessing I could wish for:
As to my fears, already I have lost them:
They ne'er shall vex me more, nor trouble you.

_Acas. _ I thank you.
My friends, 'tis late:
Now my disorder seems all past and over,
And I, methinks, begin to feel new health.

_Cas. _ Would you but rest, it might restore you quite.

_Acas. _ Yes, I'll to bed; old men must humour weakness.
Good night, my friends! Heaven guard you all! Good night!
To-morrow early we'll salute the day,
Find out new pleasures, and renew lost time.
[_exeunt all but Chamont and Chaplain. _

_Cham. _ If you're at leisure, sir, we'll waste an hour:
'Tis yet too soon to sleep, and t'will 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 that my parents
Would make me what you see me.

_Cham. _ Have you had long dependance 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.
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,
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. _ Ev'ry body lov'd him; besides, he was my patron'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?

_Chap. _ Love your sister?

_Cham. _ Ay, love her.

_Chap. _ Either he loves her, or he much has wrong'd her.

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

_Chap. _ Ay, sir, wrong'd her.

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

_Chap. _ I would hide nothing from you willingly.

_Cham. _ By the reverenc'd 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 mov'd and I will trust you.

_Cham. _ Wilt thou?

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

_Cham. _ It never shall.

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

_Cham. _ What, met them in the grove together?

_Chap. _ I, by their own appointment, met them there,
Receiv'd their marriage vows, and join'd their hands.

_Cham. _ How! married?

_Chap. _ Yes, sir.

_Cham. _ Then my soul's at peace:
But why would you so long delay 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 e'en to them, the new-match'd pair. Farewel!
Believe the truth, and know me for thy friend. [_exeunt. _

_Re-enter Castalio, with Monimia. _

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

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

_Cas. _ O, thou art tender all!
Gentle and kind as sympathising nature!

_Re-enter Polydore, unobserved. _

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.

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

_Cas. _ 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 betray'd.

_Cas. _ Oh! doubt it not, Monimia; our joys
Shall be as silent as the ecstatic bliss
Of souls, that by intelligence converse.
Away, my love! first take this kiss. Now, haste:
I long for that to come, yet grudge each minute past.
My brother wand'ring too so late this way! [_exit Mon. _

_Pol. _ Castalio!

_Cas. _ My Polydore, how dost thou?
How does our father? is he well recover'd?

_Pol. _ I left him happily repos'd to rest:
He's still as gay as if his life was young.
But how does fair Monimia?

_Cas. _ Doubtless, well:
A cruel beauty, with her conquest pleas'd,
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?

_Cas. _ She's not woman else:
Though I'm grown weary of this tedious hoping;
We've in a barren desart stray'd too long.

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

_Cas. _ No; she has still avoided me;
I wish I'd never meddled with the matter,
And would enjoin thee, Polydore----

_Pol. _ To what?

_Cas. _ 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.

_Cas. _ But I have wond'rous reasons on my side,
That would persuade thee, were they known.

_Pol. _ Then speak 'em:
What are they? Came ye to her window here
To learn 'em now? Castalio, have a care;
Use honest dealing with a 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.
You say you've reasons: why are they conceal'd?

_Cas. _ To-morrow I may tell you.

_Pol. _ Why not now?

_Cas. _ It is a matter of such consequence,
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?

_Cas. _ It seems you've watch'd me, then?

_Pol. _ I scorn the office.

_Cas. _ Pr'ythee avoid a thing thou may'st repent.

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

_Cas. _ Nay, if ye're angry, Polydore, good night. [_exit. _

_Pol. _ Good night, Castalio, if ye're in such haste.
He little thinks I've overheard th' 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 may'st in time expect preferment. Canst thou
Pretend to secresy, cajole and flatter
Thy master's follies, and assist his pleasures?

_Page. _ My lord, I could do any thing 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 employ'd.
Go to my brother, he's in his 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.
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 employ'd again.

_Page.