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When thou art from me, every place is desert,
Mon. Oh, the bewitching tongues of faithless men !
361 Cast. What means my love? Oh, how have I deserv'd This language from the sov'reign of my joys ? Stop, stop those tears, Monimia, for they fall, Like baneful dew from a distempered sky; I feel 'em chill me to my very heart.
Mon. Oh, you are false, Castalio, most forsworn! Attempt no farther to delude my faith ; My heart is fixt, and you shall shak't no more.
Cast. Who told you so? What ill-bred villain durst Profane the sacred business of my love ?
Mon. Your brother, knowing on what terms I'm here, The unhappy object of your father's charity, Licentiously discours'd to me of love, And durst affront me with his brutal passion.
Cast. '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?
Cast. I, knowing him precipitate and rash,
Mon. Could you then ? did you i can you own it too?
Cast. Is this Monimia? surely no; till now
Mon. Man therefore was a lord-like creature made,
Cast. Who can hear this and bear an equal mind I
Since you will drive me from you, I must go;
Mon. Castalio, stay! we must not part. I find
Cast. Where am Il surely Paradise is round me, Sweets planted by the hand of Heav'n grow here, And ev'ry sense is full of thy perfection. To hear thee speak might calm a madman's frenzy, Till by attention he forgot his sorrows; But to behold thy eyes, th’amazing beauties, Might make him rage again with love, as I do. “ To touch thee's heaven, but to enjoy thee. Oh!" Thou nature's whole perfection in one piece; 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. [Ex.
ACT III. SCENE I.
A Garden. Enter POLYDORE and Page.
Page. At first I thought they had been mortal foes;
Pol. But what succeeded?
Page. Oh, 'twas wond'rous pretty!
Pol. Happy Castalio! Now, by my great soul,
Her sinking virtue, till she yielded quite.
Page. My lord!
Pol. Go to your chamber, and prepare your lute : Find out some song to please me, that describes Women's hypocrisies, their subtile wiles, Betraying smiles, feign'd tears, inconstancies; Their painted outsides, and corrupted minds; The sum of all their follies, and their falsehoods.
Enter 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, 40 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 leaning on two. Acast. 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 Castalios
Serv. My lord,