SCENE I.

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 came hither a private gen-
tleman,

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,

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;

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.

Puul. 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 any thing 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..

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, ac-
tive 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 something, 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.

SCENE II.-A Garden.

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 winged steed, Came on, and down the dangerous precipice leaped,

To save Castalio. 'Twas a godlike 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 cold, 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 re

nown

To make me loved and valued when I am 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 grow.
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 have 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 fa-
ther'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 birth-right 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. Prithee, where's my fault?
Pol. You love Monimia.

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 it 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:

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 not I laid in my peaceful grave
With my poor parents, and at rest as they are?
Instead of that I'm wandering into cares.
Castalio! oh, Castalio! thou hast caught
My foolish heart; and, like a tender child,
That trusts his play-thing to another hand,
I fear its harm, and would fain 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 the 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. Oh, men! for flattery and deceit re-
nowned!

Thus, when ye are 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. Oh, madam, very wickedly they have
talked!

But I am afraid to name it; for, they say,

Boys must be whipped, that tell their masters' se

crets.

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 the 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 hast 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

hope,

I would not be the argument of strife. But surely my Castalio wont 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.

dearest

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 shewed
The pleasure, not the pangs of his desire.
He said, no woman's smiles should buy his free-
dom;

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.

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! Cust. Madam?

Mon. Have you purposed

To abuse me palpably? What means this usage? Why am I left with Polydore alone?

Cust. He best can tell you. Business of importance

Calls me away; I must attend my father.
Mon. Will you then leave me thus?
Cust. But for a moment.

Mon. It has been otherwise; the time has been,

When business might have staid, 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 it 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 si

lent?

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, ap-
peared,

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 blessed;

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 enjoy

ment.

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.

power I swear,

Mon. Here on my knees, by Heaven's blest [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'll still inherit My mother's virtues, and my father's honour. Pol. Intolerable vanity! your sex Was never in the right; ye are 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 ye are nice, to-morrow none 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 have them all,
And, to avoid its fault, 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 de-
formed,

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 a
broad,

And brought in wanton wishes to her heart,
I' th' 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 POL. and Page,

SCENE I.

A Saloon. Enter ACASTO, CASTALIO, and POLYDORE.

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 large 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 it;

It is a little sneaking art, which knaves
Use to cajole and soften fools withal.

If thou hast flattery in thy nature, out with it,
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 statesman has his sneer, To smooth a poor man off with, that can't bribe

him;

The grave dull fellow of small business sooths 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 th' hand, and praise his good complexion?

Pol. Courts are the places, where best manners flourish;

Where the deserving ought to rise, and fools Make shew. Why should I vex and chafe my spleen,

To see a gaudy coxcomb shine, when I
Have seen enough to sooth him in his follies,
And ride him to advantage as I please?

Acast. Who merit, ought indeed to rise i' th' world;

But no wise man, that's honest, should expect it. 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, ye're fools, and know me not;
I've learned,

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, whilst selfish slaves, That e'en 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