Calls saucy loud suspicion public zeal,
And mutiny, the dictates of his spirit:
Be very careful how you make new friends.
Men read not morals now: 'twas a custom:
But all are to their father's vices born;
And in their mother's ignorance are bred.
Let marriage be the last mad thing you do,
For all the sins and follies of the past.

If you have children, never give them knowledge;
Twill spoil their fortune; fools are all the fashion;
If you have religion, keep it to yourselves;
Atheists will else make use of toleration,
And laugh you out of it. Never shew religion,
Except you mean to pass for knaves of conscience,
And cheat believing fools, that think ye honest.
Enter SERINA.

Ser. My father!
Acast. 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.
Acast. Rise to my arms, and thy kind prayers
are answered.

For thou art a wondrous extract of all goodness, Born for ny joy, and no pains felt when near thee.

Chamont!

Enter CHAMONT,

Cha. My lord, may it prove not an unlucky

omen.

Many, I see, are waiting round about you, And I am come to ask a blessing too!

Acast. Mayest thou be happy!

Cha. Where?

Acast. In all thy wishes.

Cha. Confirm me so, and make this fair one mine;

I am unpractised in the trade of courtship,
And know not how to deal out love with art:
Onsets in love seem best like those in war,
Tierce, resolute, and done with all the force;
So I would open my whole heart at once,
And pour out the abundance of my soul.

Acast. What says Serina? Canst thou love a soldier?

One born to honour, and to honour bred? One that has learned to treat even foes with kindness;

To wrong no man's good fame, nor praise himself?

Ser. Oh! name not love, for that's allied to joy,

And joy must be a stranger to my heart, When you are 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.
Acast. Chamont, pursue her, conquer and pos-
sess her,

And, as my son, the third of all my fortune
Shall be thy lot.

But keep thy eyes from wandering, man of frailty,
Beware the dangerous beauty of the wanton;
Shun their enticements; ruin, like a vulture,
Waits on their conquests: falsehood too's their
business;

They put false beauty off to all the world,
Use false endearments to the fools that love them,
And, when they marry, to their silly husbands
They bring false virtue, broken fame and for-

My friends, 'tis late;

Now my disorder seems all past and over,
And I, methinks, begin to feel new health.
Cast. Would you but rest, it might restore you
quite.

Acast. Yes, I'll to bed; old men must humour weakness:

Let me have music, then, to lull and chase
This melancholy thought of death away.
Good-night, my friends; Heaven guard ye all!
good-night!

To-morrow early we'll salute the day,
Find out new pleasures, and redeem lost time.
[Exeunt all but Chamont and Chaplain.
Cha. Hist, hist, Sir Gravity, a word with you.
Chap. With me, sir!

Cha. 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 are a soldier?

Cha. Yes.

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 chearfully, live soberly,
Take my innocent pleasure freely;

Cha. Why, what affrights thee? Chap. You do,

Cha. 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.

Cha. Why? didst thou love him?

Chap. Every body loved him; besides he was my master's friend.

Cha. 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.

Cha. Then prithee tell me,

Think'st thou the lord Castalio loves my sister? Nay, never start. Come, come, I know thy

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 practice generous truth,
Though ye pretend to teach it to the world.
Chap. I would deserve a better thought from
you.

Cha. 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.

Cha. 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.

Cha. This is a secret worth a monarch's for

tune:

What shall I give thee for it? Thou dear physician
Of sickly souls, unfold this riddle to me,
And comfort mine-

Chap. I would hide nothing from you willingly.
Cha. Nay, then again thou art honest. Would'st
thou tell me?
Chap. Yes, if I durst.

Cha. Art thou then

So far concerned in it? 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 occasions, 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 am not often used thus,
Cha. Be just then.

Chap. So I shall be to the trust,
That is laid upon me.

Cha. By the reverenced soul

Of that great honest man, that gave me being, Tell me but what thou knowest 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

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 prithee tell me why that look cast down?
Why that sad sigh, as if thy heart was breaking?
Mon. Castalio, I am thinking what we have
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 have seen Thy little breasts, with soft compassion swelled, Move 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 grows jealous

now;

Sure she's too good for any mortal creature!
I could grow wild, and praise thee even to mad-

ness.

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.
Pol. So hot, my brother! [Polydore at the door.
Mon. Twill be impossible;

You know your father's chamber is next to mine,
And the least noise will certainly alarm him.

Cast. Impossible! impossible! alas: Is it impossible 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 art 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 hast power to stop a flowing
tide,

Or in a tempest make the seas be calm;
And, when that is 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 cham-
ber door;

And at that signal you shall gain admittance:

'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. Mon.
My brother wandering too so late this way!
Pol. 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 conquest, 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? Čast. She's not woman else:

Though I am grown weary of this tedious hoping; We have 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 had never meddled with the matter:
And would enjoin thee, Polydore-

Pol. To what?

'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 not I see you part this very moment?

Cast. It seems you have watched me, then?
Pol. I scorn the office.

Cast. Prithee avoid a thing thou mayest repent.

Pol. That is henceforward making leagues with

you.

Cast. Nay, if you are angry, Polydore, goodnight. [Exit. Pol. Good-night, Castalio, if you are in such haste.

He little thinks I have overheard the appointment;

But to his chamber's gone to wait a while,
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.
O, 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!

Page. My lord!

Enter Page.

Pol. Come hither, boy.

Thou hast a pretty, forward, lying face, And mayest in time expect preferment. thou

Canst

Pretend to secrecy, 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 should'st not be em-
ployed.

Go to my brother, he is 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 am gone
To bed, and sent you there to know his pleasure,
Whether he will hunt to-morrow. Well said,

To me; would often set me on his knee,
Then give me sweetmeats, call me pretty boy,
And ask me what the maids talked of at nights.
Pol. Run quickly, then, and prosp'rous be thy
[Exit Page.

wishes.

Here I am alone, and fit for mischief; now
To cheat this brother, will it be honest that
I heard the sign she ordered him to give.
O, for the art of Proteus, but to change
The unhappy Polydore to blest Castalio!
She is not so well acquainted with him yet,
But I may fit her arms as well as he.
Then, when I am 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 heavens, 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.

[Maid at the window.] Who's there? Pol. 'Tis I.

Maid. My lord Castalio?

Pol. The same.

How does my love, my dear Monimia?
Maid. Oh!

She wonders much at your unkind delay;
You have staid 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.
[Maid descends.
Now boast, Castalio, triumph now, and tell
Thyself strange stories of a promised bliss.
[The door unbolts.
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! [Erit.
Enter CASTALIO and Page.

Page. Indeed, my lord, 'twill be a lovely morning:

Pray let us hunt.

Cast. Go, you are 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.

Good-night. Commend me to my brother.
Page. Oh!

You never heard the last new song I learned!
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. What, 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 am weary. Page. Oh! but you promised me, the last time I told you what colour my lady Monimia's stockings were of, and that she gartered them above 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, 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.
Cust. That's a wonder! prithee tell it me.
Page. 'Tis,-'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 play-things then. I heard her say so, as she lay a-bed, man.

Cast. Talk'd 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 the coverts couched;
The fishes to their banks or ouze repaired,
And to the murmurs of the waters sleep;

The feeling air's at rest, and feels no noise,
Except of some soft breeze among the trees,
Rocking the harmless birds that rest upon them.
'Tis now, that, guided by my love, I go
To take possession of my Monimia's charms.
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 feasts his eyes upon the shining mammon.
[Knocks.

She hears me not; sure she already sleeps;
Her wishes could not brook so long delay,
And her poor heart has beat itself to rest.

[Knocks again.

Monimia! my angel!--ha!—not yet-
How long's the shortest moment of delay,
To a heart impatient of its pangs like mine,
In sight of ease, and panting to the goal.
[Knocks again.

Once more

Maid. [At the window.] Who's there,
That comes thus rudely to disturb our rest?
Cast. 'Tis I.

Maid. Who are you? What's your name?
Cust. Suppose the lord Castalio.
Maid. I know you not.

The lord Castalio has no business here.

Cast. Ha! have a care; what can this mean! Whoe'er thou art, I charge thee to Monimia fly; Tell her I'm here, and wait upon my doom.

Maid. Whoe'er you are, ye may repent this

And bring her tidings from the State of Love;
They are all in consultation met together,
How to reward my truth, and crown her vows.
Maid. Sure the man's mad!

Cast. Or this will make me so.
Obey me, or by all the wrongs I suffer,
I'll scale the window, and come in by force,
Let the sad consequence be what it will!
This creature's trifling folly makes me mad!

Maid. My lady's answer is, you may depart.
She says she knows you; you are Polydore,
Sent by Castalio, as you were to-day,
To affront and do her violence again.
Cast. I'll not believe it.
Maid. You may, sir.

Cast. Curses blast thee!

Maid. Well, 'tis a fine cool evening; and, I

hope,

May cure the raging fever in your blood.
Good-night.

Cast. And farewell all that's just in women!
This is contrived; a studied trick, to abuse
My easy nature, and torment my mind.

Sure now she's bound me fast, and means to lord

it,

To rein me hard, and ride me at her will, 'Till by degrees she shape me into fool,