Complete Works of Thomas Otway

by Thomas Otway

  Flor. 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.

  Flor. Whoe’er ye are, ye may repent this outrage;

  My lady must not be disturbed. Good-night.

  Cast. She must, tell her she shall; go, I’m in haste,

  And bring her tidings from the State of Love;

  They’re all in consultation met together,

  How to reward my truth, and crown her vows.

  Flor. 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.

  Flor. 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’t.

  Flor. You may, sir.

  Cast. Curses blast thee!

  Flor. Well, ’tis a fine cool evening; and I hope

  May cure the raging fever in your blood.

  Good-night. [Retires.

  Cast. And farewell all that’s just in woman!

  This is contrived, a studied trick to abuse

  My easy nature, and torment my mind;

  Sure now she has 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

  For all her future uses. Death and torment!

  ’Tis impudence to think my soul will bear it.

  Oh, I could grow even wild, and tear my hair

  ’Tis well, Monimia, that thy empire’s short

  Let but to-morrow, but to-morrow come,

  And try if all thy arts appease my wrong;

  Till when, be this detested place my bed, [Lies down.

  Where I will ruminate on woman’s ills,

  Laugh at myself, and curse the inconstant sex.

  Faithless Monimia! O Monimia!

  Enter Ernesto.

  Ern. Either

  My sense has been deluded, or this way

  I heard the sound of sorrow; ’tis late night,

  And none whose mind’s at peace would wander now.

  Cast. Who’s there?

  Ern. A friend.

  Cast. If thou art so, retire,

  And leave this place; for I would be alone.

  Ern. Castalio! My lord, why in this posture,

  Stretched on the ground? Your honest, true, old servant,

  Your poor Ernesto, cannot see you thus;

  Rise, I beseech you.

  Cast. If thou art Ernesto,

  As by thy honesty thou seem’st to be,

  Once leave me to my folly.

  Ern. I can’t leave you,

  And not the reason know of your disorders.

  Remember how, when young, I in my arms

  Have often borne you, pleased you in your pleasures,

  And sought an early share in your affection.

  Do not discard me now, but let me serve you.

  Cast. Thou canst not serve me.

  Ern. Why?

  Cast. Because my thoughts

  Are full of woman; thou, poor wretch, art past them.

  Ern. I hate the sex.

  Cast. Then I’m thy friend, Ernesto. [Rises.

  I’d leave the world for him that hates a woman.

  Woman, the fountain of all human frailty!

  What mighty ills have not been done by woman!

  Who was’t betrayed the Capitol? A woman.

  Who lost Mark Antony the world? A woman.

  Who was the cause of a long ten years’ war,

  And laid at last old Troy in ashes? Woman,

  Destructive, damnable, deceitful woman!

  Woman to man first as a blessing given,

  When innocence and love were in their prime!

  Happy awhile in Paradise they lay,

  But quickly woman longed to go astray;

  Some foolish new adventure needs must prove,

  And the first devil she saw, she changed her love;

  To his temptations lewdly she inclined

  Her soul, and for an apple damned mankind. [Exeunt.

  ACT THE FOURTH.

  SCENE I. — A Room in Acasto’s House.

  Enter Acasto.

  Acast. Blest be the morning that has brought me health;

  A happy rest has softened pain away,

  And I’ll forget it, though my mind’s not well:

  A heavy melancholy clogs my heart;

  I droop and sigh, I know not why. Dark dreams,

  Sick fancy’s children, have been over-busy,

  And all the night played farces in my brains.

  Methought I heard the midnight raven cry;

  Waked with the imagined noise, my curtains seemed

  To start, and at my feet my sons appeared,

  Like ghosts, all pale and stiff: I strove to speak,

  But could not; suddenly the forms were lost,

  And seemed to vanish in a bloody cloud.

  ’Twas odd, and for the present shook my thoughts;

  But was the effect of my distempered blood;

  And, when the health’s disturbed, the mind’s unruly.

  Enter Polydore.

  Good-morning, Polydore.

  Pol. Heaven keep your lordship!

  Acast. Have you yet seen Castalio to-day?

  Pol. My lord, ’tis early day; he’s hardly risen.

  Acast. Go, call him up, and meet me in the chapel. [Exit Polydore.

  I cannot think all has gone well to-night;

  For as I waking lay (and sure my sense

  Was then my own) methought I heard my son

  Castalio’s voice; but it seemed low and mournful;

  Under my window too I thought I heard it:

  My untoward fancy could not be deceived

  In everything; and I will search the truth out.

  Enter Monimia and Florella.

  Already up, Monimia! you rose

  Thus early surely to outshine the day!

  Or was there anything that crossed your rest?

  They were naughty thoughts that would not let you sleep.

  Mon. Whatever are my thoughts, my lord, I’ve learnt

  By your example to correct their ills,

  And morn and evening give up the account.

  Acast. Your pardon, sweet one; I upbraid you not;

  Or, if I would, you are so good I could not;

  Though I’m deceived, or you’re more fair to-day;

  For beauty’s heightened in your cheeks, and all

  Your charms seem up and ready in your eyes.

  Mon. The little share I have’s so very mean

  That it may easily admit addition;

  Though you, my lord, should most of all beware

  To give it too much praise, and make me proud.

  Acast. Proud of an old man’s praises! No, Monimia!

  But if my prayers can do you any good,

  Thou shalt not want the largest share of them.

  Heard you no noise to-night?

  Mon. Noise, my good lord!

  Acast. Ay, about midnight?

  Mon. Indeed, my lord, I don’t remember any.

  Acast. You must, sure! Went you early to your rest?

  Mon. About the wonted hour. — Why this inquiry? [Aside.

  Acast. And went your maid to bed too?

  Mon. My lord, I guess so:

  I’ve seldom known her disobey my orders.

  Acast. Sure goblins then, or fairies, haunt the dwelling!

  I’ll have inquiry made through all the house,

>   But I’ll find out the cause of these disorders.

  Good-day to thee, Monimia. I’ll to chapel. [Exit.

  Mon. I’ll but dispatch some orders to my woman,

  And wait upon your lordship there.

  I fear the priest has played us false; if so,

  My poor Castalio loses all for me.

  I wonder, though, he made such haste to leave me;

  Was’t not unkind, Florella? surely ’twas!

  He scarce afforded one kind parting word,

  But went away so cold! — the kiss he gave me

  Seemed the forced compliment of sated love.

  Would I had never married!

  Flor. Why?

  Mon. Methinks

  The scene’s quite altered; I am not the same;

  I’ve bound up for myself a weight of cares,

  And how the burden will be borne, none knows.

  A husband may be jealous, rigid, false;

  And, should Castalio e’er prove so to me,

  So tender is my heart, so nice my love,

  ’Twould ruin and distract my rest for ever.

  Flor. Madam, he’s coming.

  Mon. Where, Florella? where?

  Is he returning? To my chamber lead;

  I’ll meet him there: the mysteries of our love

  Should be kept private as religious rites

  From the unhallowed view of common eyes. [Exeunt.

  SCENE II. — Another Room in Acasto’s House.

  Enter Castalio.

  Cast. Wished morning’s come! And now, upon the plains

  And distant mountains, where they feed their flocks,

  The happy shepherds leave their homely huts,

  And with their pipes proclaim the new-born day.

  The lusty swain comes with his well-filled scrip

  Of healthful viands, which, when hunger calls,

  With much content and appetite, he eats,

  To follow in the fields his daily toil,

  And dress the grateful glebe, that yields him fruits.

  The beasts, that under the warm hedges slept,

  And weathered out the cold bleak night, are up,

  And, looking towards the neighbouring pastures, raise

  The voice, and bid their fellow-brutes good-morrow

  The cheerful birds too, on the tops of trees,

  Assemble all in quires, and with their notes

  Salute and welcome up the rising sun.

  There’s no condition sure so cursed as mine;

  I’m married! ‘Sdeath! I’m sped. How like a dog

  Looked Hercules, thus to a distaff chained!

  Monimia! O Monimia!

  Enter Monimia and Florella.

  Mon. I come,

  I fly to my adored Castalio’s arms,

  My wishes’ lord. May every morn begin

  Like this; and with our days our loves renew!

  Now I may hope you’re satisfied — [Looking languishingly on him.

  Cast. I am

  Well satisfied — that thou art — Oh! —

  Mon. What? speak.

  Art thou not well, Castalio? Come, lean

  Upon my breasts, and tell me where’s thy pain.

  Cast. ’Tis here; ’tis in my head; ’tis in my heart;

  ’Tis everywhere; it rages like a madness;

  And I most wonder how my reason holds!

  Nay, wonder not, Monimia: the slave

  You thought you had secured within my breast

  Is grown a rebel, and has broke his chain,

  And now he walks there like a lord at large.

  Mon. Am I not then your wife, your loved Monimia?

  I once was so, or I’ve most strangely dreamt.

  What ails my love?

  Cast. Whate’er thy dreams have been,

  Thy waking thoughts ne’er meant Castalio well.

  No more, Monimia, of your sex’s arts,

  They’re useless all: I’m not that pliant tool,

  That necessary utensil you’d make me:

  I know my charter better — I am man,

  Obstinate man, and will not be enslaved.

  Mon. You shall not fear’t: indeed my nature’s easy;

  I’ll ever live your most obedient wife,

  Nor ever any privilege pretend

  Beyond your will; for that shall be my law; —

  Indeed I will not.

  Cast. Nay, you shall not, madam;

  By yon bright Heaven, you shall not! All the day

  I’ll play the tyrant, and at night forsake thee;

  Till by afflictions, and continued cares,

  I’ve worn thee to a homely household drudge:

  Nay, if I’ve any too, thou shalt be made

  Subservient to all my looser pleasures;

  For thou hast wronged Castalio.

  Mon. No more:

  Oh, kill me here, or tell me my offence;

  I’ll never quit you else, but on these knees

  Thus follow you all day, till they’re worn bare,

  And hang upon you like a drowning creature.

  Castalio!

  Cast. Away! Last night, last night!

  Mon. It was our wedding-night.

  Cast. No more! forget it.

  Mon. Why? do you then repent?

  Cast. I do.

  Mon. O Heaven!

  And will you leave me thus? Help, help, Florella!

  [He drags her to the door, breaks from her, and exit.

  Help me to hold this yet loved cruel man.

  Oh, my heart breaks — I’m dying! Oh — stand off!

  I’ll not indulge this woman’s weakness; still,

  Chafed and fomented, let my heart swell on,

  Till with its injuries it burst, and shake,

  With the dire blow, this prison to the earth.

  Flor. What sad mistake has been the cause of this?

  Mon. Castalio! Oh, how often has he swore

  Nature should change, the sun and stars grow dark,

  Ere he would falsify his vows to me!

  Make haste, confusion, then! sun, lose thy light,

  And stars, drop dead with sorrow to the earth!

  For my Castalio’s false.

  Flor. Unhappy day!

  Mon. False as the wind, the water, or the weather;

  Cruel as tigers o’er their trembling prey:

  I feel him in my breast, he tears my heart,

  And at each sigh he drinks the gushing blood.

  Must I be long in pain?

  Enter Chamont.

  Cham. In tears, Monimia?

  Mon. Whoe’er thou art,

  Leave me alone to my beloved despair.

  Cham. Lift up thy eyes, and see who comes to cheer thee.

  Tell me the story of thy wrongs, and then

  See if my soul has rest till thou hast justice.

  Mon. My brother!

  Cham. Yes, Monimia, if thou think’st

  That I deserve the name, I am thy brother.

  Mon. O Castalio!

  Cham. Ha!

  Name me that name again! My soul’s on fire

  Till I know all: there’s meaning in that name.

  I know he is thy husband; therefore trust me

  With all the following truth —

  Mon. Indeed, Chamont,

  There’s nothing in it but the fault of nature:

  I’m often thus seized suddenly with grief,

  I know not why.

  Cham. You use me ill, Monimia;

  And I might think, with justice, most severely

  Of this unfaithful dealing with your brother.

  Mon. Truly I’m not to blame: suppose I’m fond,

  And grieve for what as much may please another?

  Should I upbraid the dearest friend on earth

  For the first fault? you would not do so, would you?

  Cham. Not if I’d cause to think it was a friend.

  Mon. Why do you then call this unfaithful dealing?
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  I ne’er concealed my soul from you before:

  Bear with me now, and search my wounds no farther;

  For every probing pains me to the heart.

  Cham. ’Tis sign there’s danger in’t must be prevented.

  Where’s your new husband? still that thought disturbs you.

  What! only answer me with tears? Castalio!

  Nay, now they stream; —

  Cruel, unkind Castalio! is’t not so?

  Mon. I cannot speak, grief flows so fast upon me;

  It chokes, and will not let me tell the cause.

  Oh!

  Cham. My Monimia, to my soul thou’rt dear,

  As honour to my name; dear as the light

  To eyes but just restored, and healed of blindness.

  Why wilt thou not repose within my breast

  The anguish that torments thee?

  Mon. Oh! I dare not.

  Cham. I have no friend but thee; we must confide

  In one another. Two unhappy orphans,

  Alas, we are; and, when I see thee grieve,

  Methinks it is a part of me that suffers.

  Mon. Oh, shouldst thou know the cause of my lamenting,

  I’m satisfied, Chamont, that thou wouldst scorn me;

  Thou wouldst despise the abject, lost Monimia;

  No more wouldst praise this hated beauty; but

  When in some cell, distracted, as I shall be,

  Thou seest me lie, these unregarded locks

  Matted like furies’ tresses; my poor limbs

  Chained to the ground; and, ‘stead of the delights

  Which happy lovers taste, my keeper’s stripes,

  A bed of straw, and a coarse wooden dish

  Of wretched sustenance; — when thus thou seest me,

  Pr’ythee have charity and pity for me:

  Let me enjoy this thought!

  Cham. Why wilt thou rack

  My soul so long, Monimia? Ease me quickly;

  Or thou wilt run me into madness first.

  Mon. Could you be secret?

  Cham. Secret as the grave.

  Mon. But when I’ve told you, will you keep your fury

  Within its bounds? will you not do some rash

  And horrid mischief? for, indeed, Chamont,

  You would not think how hardly I’ve been used

  From a near friend; from one that has my soul

  A slave, and therefore treats it like a tyrant.

  Cham. I will be calm. But has Castalio wronged thee?

  Has he already wasted all his love?

  What has he done? quickly; for I’m all trembling

  With expectation of a horrid tale.

  Mon. Oh! could you think it?

  Cham. What?

  Mon. I fear he’ll kill me.

  Cham. Ha!

  Mon. Indeed I do; he’s strangely cruel to me;

  Which, if it lasts, I’m sure must break my heart.

  Cham. What has he done?