ACT THE FIFTH.
SCENE I.—The Garden before Acasto's House.
Castalio discovered lying on the ground.
Song.
By cruel beauty's pride;
Bring each a garland on his head,
Let none his sorrows hide:
But hand in hand around me move,
Singing the saddest tales of love;
And see, when your complaints ye join,
If all your wrongs can equal mine.
My heart no sorrows knew:
Pity the pain with which I die;
But ask not whence it grew.
Yet if a tempting fair you find,
That's very lovely, very kind,
Though bright as Heaven, whose stamp she bears,
Think of my fate, and shun her snares.
Male, female, father, daughter, mother, son,
Brother and sister, mingled all together;
No discontent they know, but in delightful
Wildness and freedom, pleasant springs, fresh herbage,
Calm harbours, lusty health and innocence,
Enjoy their portion; if they see a man,
How will they turn together all, and gaze
Upon the monster!
Once in a season too they taste of love:
Only the beast of reason is its slave,
And in that folly drudges all the year.
Enter Acasto.
So wretched but to name Castalio?
'Tis joy to see you, though where sorrow's nourished.
Name not a woman to me; but to think
Of woman, were enough to taint my brains,
Till they ferment to madness! O my father!
I would forget, and blot from my remembrance.
The very sound's ungrateful to my sense.
Your heart from me; you dare not trust your father.
When you would give all worldly plagues a name
Worse than they have already, call them wife:
But a new-married wife's a teeming mischief,
Full of herself: why, what a deal of horror
Has that poor wretch to come, that wedded yesterday!
And see Monimia.
Go see Monimia! Pray, my lord, excuse me;
And leave the conduct of this part of life
To my own choice.
Complaints are made to me, that you have wronged her.
And in such terms they've warmed me.
What, does she send her hero with defiance?
He durst not sure affront you?
But—
Methinks I would not have thee thought a villain.
He durst not else have said so.
I would not see thee wronged, and bear it vilely;
Though I have passed my word she shall have justice.
Think you this solitude I now have chosen,
Left joys just opening to my sense, sought here
A place to curse my fate in, measured out
My grave at length, wished to have grown one piece
With this cold clay, and all without a cause?
Enter Chamont.
For wronging innocence, and breaking vows;
Whose mighty spirit, and whose stubborn heart,
No woman can appease, nor man provoke?
Atoning for the ills you've done Chamont;
For you have wronged the dearest part of him.
Monimia, young lord, weeps in this heart;
And all the tears thy injuries have drawn
From her poor eyes are drops of blood from hence.
To great Castalio.
That has been very busy with my honour.
I own I'm much indebted to you, sir;
And here return the villain back again
You sent me by my father.
Makes me his foe! [Draws, and interposes.
Young man, it once was thought [To Castalio.
I was fit guardian of my house's honour,
And you might trust your share with me.—For you, [To Chamont.
Young soldier, I must tell you, you have wronged me:
I promised you to do Monimia right;
And thought my word a pledge I would not forfeit:
But you, I find, would fright us to performance.
That brave revenge was due to injured honour;
Oppose not then the justice of my sword,
Lest you should make me jealous of your love.
Because thou know'st the place is sanctified
With the remembrance of an ancient friendship.
Till I may be revenged for all the wrongs
Done me by that ungrateful fair thou plead'st for.
Thy father's honour's not above Monimia's!
Nor was thy mother's truth and virtue fairer.
With thy capricious follies: the remembrance
Of the loved creature that once filled these arms—
Monimia, though a helpless orphan, destitute
Of friends and fortune, though the unhappy sister
Of poor Chamont, whose sword is all his portion,
Be oppressed by thee, thou proud, imperious traitor!
Enter Serina.
The cause of these disorders, my Chamont?
Who is't has wronged thee?
For shelter?
Shall then betray my fears.
Sheathe up thy angry sword, and don't affright me.
Chamont, let once Serina calm thy breast;
If any of my friends have done thee injuries,
I'll be revenged, and love thee better for it.
This opportunity to show your vanity,
Let's meet some other time, when by ourselves
We fairly may dispute our wrongs together.
Farewell; I wish much happiness attend you.
Give me Chamont, and let the world forsake me!
No beauteous blossom of the fragrant spring,
Though the fair child of nature newly born,
Can be so lovely.—Angry, unkind Castalio,
Suppose I should awhile lay by my passions,
And be a beggar in Monimia's cause,
Might it be heard?
You would, though you I find will not be satisfied:
So, in a word, Monimia is my scorn;
She basely sent you here to try my fears;
That was your business.
No artful prostitute, in falsehoods practised,
To make advantage of her coxcomb's follies,
Could have done more—disquiet vex her for't!
Came to disturb thee thus! I'm grieved I hindered
Thy just resentment. But Monimia—
It might be pardoned.
Castalio, and the quiet of my age.
I tell you, were she prostrate at my feet,
Full of her sex's best dissembled sorrows,
And all that wondrous beauty of her own,
My heart might break, but it should never soften.
Enter Florella.
She flies with fury over all the house,
Through every room of each apartment, crying,
"Where's my Castalio? give me my Castalio!"
Except she sees you, sure she'll grow distracted.
And with such tenderness? Conduct me quickly
To the poor lovely mourner. O my father!
And be a man; my heart will not forget her.
But do not tell the world you saw this of me.
In her soft bosom sigh my soul to peace:
Till through the panting breast she finds the way
To mould my heart, and make it what she will.
Monimia! Oh! [Exeunt.
SCENE II.—A Room in Acasto's House.
Enter Monimia.
I will not rest till I have found Castalio,
My wishes' lord, comely as rising day,
Amidst ten thousand eminently known.
Flowers spring up where'er he treads; his eyes,
Fountains of brightness, cheering all about him—
When will they shine on me?—O stay, my soul!
I cannot die in peace till I have seen him.
Enter Castalio.
That life's in love with't?
So in a camp, though at the dead of night,
If but the trumpet's cheerful noise is heard,
All at the signal leap from downy rest,
And every heart awakes, as mine does now.
Where art thou?
And art thou but the shadow of Monimia?
Why dost thou fly me thus?
In dark oblivion but a few past hours,
We might be happy.
A fault, where humble love, like mine, implores thee?
For I must love thee, though it prove my ruin.
Which way shall I court thee?
What shall I do to be enough thy slave,
And satisfy the lovely pride that's in thee?
I'll kneel to thee, and weep a flood before thee:
Yet pr'ythee, tyrant, break not quite my heart;
But when my task of penitence is done,
Heal it again, and comfort me with love.
To pay thee back this mighty tenderness,
It is because I look on thee with horror,
And cannot see the man I so have wronged.
Just as thy poor heart thinks. Have not I wronged thee?
But wilt ere long stumble on horrid danger.
Would I that pardon meet; the only thing
Can make me view the face of Heaven with hope.
When the destroyer has been out for prey,
The scattered lovers of the feathered kind,
Seeking, when danger's past, to meet again,
Make moan and call, by such degrees approach,
Till joining thus they bill, and spread their wings,
Murmuring love, and joy their fears are over.
Lest, in pursuance of the goodly quarry,
Thou meet a disappointment that distracts thee.
What danger threatens me, and where it lies:
Why didst thou,—pr'ythee smile and tell me why,—
When I stood waiting underneath the window,
Quaking with fierce and violent desires
(The dropping dews fell cold upon my head,
Darkness enclosed, and the winds whistled round me,
Which with my mournful sighs made such sad music
As might have moved the hardest heart); why wert thou
Deaf to my cries, and senseless of my pains?
Read'st thou not something in my face, that speaks
Wonderful change and horror from within me?
What dost thou mean by horror, and forbearance
Of more inquiry? Tell me, I beg thee tell me;
And don't betray me to a second madness.
Thou wouldst do anything to give me ease,
Unfold this riddle ere my thoughts grow wild,
And let in fears of ugly form upon me.
Monimia, poor Monimia tells you this,
We ne'er must meet again.
For all my good or evil fate dwells in thee.
Ne'er meet again!
On earth, that dares not look like thee, and say so?
Thou art my heart's inheritance; I served
A long and painful, faithful slavery for thee,
And who shall rob me of the dear-bought blessing?
Heaven has decreed, and therefore I've resolved,—
With torment I must tell it thee, Castalio,—
Ever to be a stranger to thy love;
In some far-distant country waste my life,
And from this day to see thy face no more.
And never more shall find the way to rest.
But, O Monimia! art thou indeed resolved
To punish me with everlasting absence?
Why turn'st thou from me? I'm alone already.
Methinks I stand upon a naked beach,
Sighing to winds, and to the seas complaining,
Whilst afar off the vessel sails away,
Where all the treasure of my soul's embarked.
Wilt thou not turn?—Oh! could those eyes but speak,
I should know all, for love is pregnant in them;
They swell, they press their beams upon me still.
Wilt thou not speak? If we must part for ever,
Give me but one kind word to think upon,
And please myself withal, whilst my heart's breaking!
She pities me! Then thou wilt go eternally?
What means all this? why all this stir, to plague
A single wretch? If but your word can shake
This world to atoms, why so much ado
With me? Think me but dead, and lay me so.
Enter Polydore.
What dog would bear't, that knew but his condition?
We've little knowledge, and that makes us cowards,
Because it cannot tell us what's to come.
Methinks my Polydore appears in sadness.
I'm strangely altered, brother, since I saw thee.
To pain. Let me embrace thee but a little,
And weep upon thy neck; I would repose
Within thy friendly bosom all my follies;
For thou wilt pardon them, because they're mine.
Friends may be false. Is there no friendship false?
Like a false friendship, when with open arms
And streaming eyes I run upon thy breast?
Oh, 'tis in thee alone I must have comfort!
I never had a thought of my Castalio
Might wrong the friendship we had vowed together.
Hast thou dealt so by me?
Shame rises in my face, and interrupts
The story of my tongue.
Knows anything which he's ashamed to tell me;
Or didst thou e'er conceal thy thoughts from Polydore?
By all the kind affection of a brother,—
For I'm ashamed to call myself thy friend,—
Forgive me.
To plague us both with one unhappy love:
Thou, like a friend, a constant generous friend,
In its first pangs didst trust me with thy passion;
Whilst I still smoothed my pain with smiles before thee,
And made a contract I ne'er meant to keep.
And kept thee as a stranger to my passion,
Till yesterday I wedded with Monimia.
Was that well done?
Was much a fault.
The tale I'll tell, what wilt thou call it then?
I cancel it thus; after this day I'll ne'er
Hold trust or converse with the false Castalio:
This witness Heaven!
I've lost all happiness, and know not why.
What means this, brother?
Just as thou wilt, do but forgive me.
How from our infancy we hand in hand
Have trod the path of life in love together;
One bed has held us, and the same desires,
The same aversions, still employed our thoughts;
Whene'er had I a friend that was not Polydore's,
Or Polydore a foe that was not mine?
Even in the womb we embraced; and wilt thou now,
For the first fault, abandon and forsake me,
Leave me amidst afflictions to myself,
Plunged in the gulf of grief, and none to help me?
Repose; she has the art of healing sorrows.
Go to her fulsome bed, and wallow there,
Till some hot ruffian, full of lust and wine,
Come storm thee out, and show thee what's thy bargain.
But let me tell thee, Polydore, I'm grieved
To find thee guilty of such low revenge,
To wrong that virtue which thou couldst not ruin.
That e'er wore conquering sword but dare to whisper
What thou proclaim'st, he were the worst of liars:
My friend may be mistaken.
There is no joy in life, if thou art lost.
A base-born villain!
From old Acasto's loins; the midwife put
A cheat upon my mother, and, instead
Of a true brother, in the cradle by me
Placed some coarse peasant's cub, and thou art he.
Yet I am calm.
[They fight; Polydore drops his sword, and runs on Castalio's.
Thou kindest brother, and thou truest friend.
You're painted merciful, and friends to innocence:
If so, then why these plagues upon my head?
They're not the gods, 'tis Polydore has wronged thee;
I've stained thy bed; thy spotless marriage-joys
Have been polluted by thy brother's lust.
Was done, when all things slept, but rage and incest.
Re-enter Monimia.
Methought I heard a voice
Sweet as the shepherd's pipe upon the mountains,
When all his little flock's at feed before him.
But what means this? here's blood!
Art thou prepared for everlasting pains?
Hurt not her tender life!
Ye powers above, with all your choicest torments,
Horror of mind, and pains yet uninvented,
If I not practise cruelty upon her,
And wreak revenge some way yet never known!
Before we part; I've drunk a healing draught
For all my cares, and never more shall wrong thee.
And thou wilt make a wretch of me indeed.
This ne'er had happened; hadst thou let me know
Thy marriage, we had all now met in joy:
But, ignorant of that,
Hearing the appointment made, enraged to think
Thou hadst outdone me in successful love,
I, in the dark, went and supplied thy place;
Whilst all the night, 'midst our triumphant joys,
The trembling, tender, kind, deceived Monimia
Embraced, caressed, and called me her Castalio.
None but myself could e'er have been so curst.
My fatal love, alas! has ruined thee,
Thou fairest, goodliest frame the gods e'er made,
Or ever human eyes and heart adored!
I've murdered too my brother.
Why wouldst thou study ways to damn me further,
And force the sin of parricide upon me?
Forgive the barbarous trespass of my tongue;
'Twas a hard violence; I could have died
With love of thee, even when I used thee worst;
Nay, at each word that my distraction uttered,
My heart recoiled, and 'twas half death to speak them.
Wilt thou receive pollution to thy bosom,
And close the eyes of one that has betrayed thee?
Has weighed thee down into destruction with him;
Why then thus kind to me?
Mayst thou be happy in a fairer bride!
But none can ever love thee like Monimia.
When I am dead,—as presently I shall be,
For the grim tyrant grasps my heart already,—
Speak well of me; and if thou find ill tongues
Too busy with my fame, don't hear me wronged;
'Twill be a noble justice to the memory
Of a poor wretch once honoured with thy love.
How my head swims!—'tis very dark. Good-night! [Dies.