May well instruct me rage is in his heart. My dear, unkind Castalio. Enter POLYDORE. Pol. Monimia weeping! [Sits down. I come, my love, to kiss all sorrow from thee. Let mischiefs multiply! let every hour Mon. O Polydore! if all The friendship e'er you vow'd to good Castalio that's rich, What mean these sighs, and why thus beats As I am, in possession of thy sweetness? thy heart? Mon. Let me alone to sorrow; 'tis a cause None e'er shall know; but it shall with me die. Pol. Happy, Monimia, he to whom these sighs, These tears, and all these languishings are paid! I know your heart was never meant for me; That jewel's for an elder brother's price. Mon. My lord! Pol. Nay, wonder not; last night I heard His oaths, your vows, and to my torment saw Your wild embraces; heard the appointment made; I did, Monimia, and I curs'd the sound. Mon. Oh! I'm his wife! Saw it perform'd! Pol. My brother's wife?' Mon. As surely as we both Happy, with such a weight upon thy soul? Wilt thou be sworn, my love? wilt thou be ne'er To reconcile and bring Castalio to thee! Unkind again? Mon. Banish such fruitless hopes! Have you sworn constancy to my undoing? Mon. Away! what meant my lord Last night? Pol. Is that a question now to be demanded? T" assault my lodging at the dead of night, Pol. By those eyes, It was the same: I spent my time much better. Pol. Where is the danger near me? your quiet, ory. Will you be kind, and answer me one question? bosom Mon. Nay, I'll conjure you, by the gods and angels, By the honour of your name, that's most concern'd, To tell me, Polydore, and tell me truly, Where did you rest last night? Pol. Within thy arms. Mon. 'Tis done. SCENE I.-A Garden. discovered lying on the Ground. Cas. See where the deer trot after one another: [Faints. Once in a season too they taste of love: Pol. She faints! - no help! - who waits?- Only the beast of reason is its slave; Cas. My father! Tis joy to see you, though where sorrow's nourish'd. Acas. Castalio, you must go along with me, And see Monimia. Cas. Sure my lord but mocks me: Go see Monimia? Acas. I say, no more dispute. Complaints are made to me that you have wrong'd her. Cas. Who has complain'd? Acas. Her brother to my face proclaim'd her wrong'd, And in such terms they've warm'd me. Cas. What terms? Her brother! Heaven! Where learn'd he that? What, does she send her hero with defiance? But Cas. Speak, what said he? Methinks I would not have thee thought a villain. Your age secur'd him; he durst not else have said Acas. By my sword, I would not see thee wrong'd, and bear it vilely: Though I have pass'd my word she shall have justice. Cas. Justice! to give her justice would undo her. Think you this solitude I now have chosen, Cas, I've heard of such a man, Cham. Thus I'll thank you. sumes to violence, Makes me his foe. [Draws and interposes. Cas. Sir, in my younger years with care you taught me That brave revenge was due to injur'd honour: Oppose not then the justice of my sword, Lest you should make me jealous of your love. Cham. Into thy father's arms thou fly'st for safety, Because thou know'st that place is sanctify'd With the remembrance of an ancient friendship. Thy father's honour's not above Monimia's; Acas. What has she done? Cas. That she's my wife, may heaven and you forgive me! Acas. Be reconcil'd then. Acas. For my sake, Castalio, and the quiet of my age. Cas. Why will you urge a thing my nature starts at? Acas. Pr'ythee forgive her. Cas. Lightnings first shall blast me! 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. Acas. Did you but know the agonies she feelsShe 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! Cas. Ha! will she? Does she name Castalio? And with such tenderness? Conduct me quickly To the poor lovely mourner. Acas. Then wilt thou go? Blessings attend thy purpose! Cas. I cannot hear Monimia's soul's in sadness, And be a man: my heart will not forget her. Acas. Delay not then; but haste and cheer thy love. Cas. Oh! I will throw my impatient arms about her! In her soft bosom sigh my soul to peace; Till through the panting breast she finds the way (With torment I must tell it thee, Castalio), SCENE II.-A Chamber. [Exeunt. In some far distant country waste my life, Mon. Stand off, and give me room; Enter CASTALIO. And from this day to see thy face no more. Methinks I stand upon a naked beach, but speak, Cas. Who talks of dying, with a voice so sweet I should know all, for love is pregnant in 'em; That life's in love with it? Mon. Hark! 'tis he that answers. Where art thou? Cas. Here, my love. Mon. No nearer, lest I vanish. Cas. Have I been in a dream then all this while? And art thou but the shadow of Monimia? Why dost thou fly me thus? They swell, they press their beams upon me still: breaking. [Exit. Cas. What means all this? Why all this stir to plague Mon. Oh! were it possible that we could A single wretch? If but your word can shake drown In dark oblivion but a few past hours, Cas. Is't then so hard, Monimia, to forgive A fault, where humble love, like mine, implores thee? For I must love thee, though it prove my ruin. Mon. If I am dumb, Castalio, and want words Just as thy poor heart thinks. Have not I Cas. No. Mon. Still thou wander'st in the dark, Castalio; Cas. My better angel, then do thou inform me Wonderful change, and Cas. If, lab'ring in the pangs of death, Thou wouldst do any thing to give me ease, Unfold this riddle ere my thoughts grow wild, And let in fears of ugly form upon me. Mon. My heart won't let me speak it; but remember, Monimia, poor Monimia, tells you this: We ne'er must meet again Cas. Ne'er meet again? This world to atoms, why so much ado this appear Like a false friendship, when, with open arms Pol. Oh, more than life; I never had a thought of my Castalio, On earth, that dares not look like thee, and say so? Hast thou dealt so by me? Mon. No, never. Cas. Where's the power Cas. O Polydore, I know not how to tell thee; Pol. I grieve, my friend Pol. A fault! when thou hast heard Pol. So would I have it be, thou best of men, The tale I'll tell, what wilt thou call it then? Thou kindest brother, and thou truest friend! Cas. How my heart throbs! Pol. First, for thy friendship, traitor, I cancel't thus: after this day I'll ne'er This witness, heaven. Cas. What will my fate do with me? I've lost all happiness, and know not why! What means this, brother? Pol. Perjur'd, treach'rous wretch, Farewell! Cas. Ye gods! we're taught that all your works are justice: Ye're painted merciful, and friends to innocence: If so, then why these plagues upon my head? Pok Blame not the heav'ns, 'tis Polydore has wrong'd thee; I've stain'd thy bed; thy spotless marriage joys Pol. By me, last night, the horrid deed Cas. I'll be thy slave, and thou shalt use me Was done, when all things slept but rage Just as thou wilt, do but forgive me. Pol. Never. and incest. Cas. Now, where's Monimia? Oh! Enter MOΝΙΜΙΑ. Mon. I'm here! who calls me? 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! Cas. Ay, brother's blood! Art thou prepar'd for everlasting pains? Pol. Oh! let me charge thee, by th' eternal justice, Hurt not her tender life! Cas. Not kill her? Mon. That task myself have finish'd: I shall die Before we part: I've drunk a healing draught For all my cares, and never more shall wrong thee. Pol. Oh, she's innocent. Cas. Tell me that story, And thou wilt make a wretch of me indeed. Pol. Hadst thou, Castalio, us'd me like a friend, This ne'er had happen'd; hadst thou let me know Thy marriage, we had all now met in joy: But, ignorant of that, Hearing th' appointment made, enrag'd to think Mon. Now, my Castalio, the most dear of men, Wilt thou receive pollution to thy bosom, And close the eyes of one that has betray'd thee? Cas. O, I'm the tunhappy wretch, whose cursed fate Has weigh'd thee down into destruction with him: Why then thus kind to me! Mon. When I'm laid low i'th' grave, and quite forgotten, May'st thou be happy in a fairer bride! But none can ever love thee like Monimia. More sorrows on thy aged father's head! 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 wrong'd; 'Twill be a noble justice to the memory Of a poor wretch, once honour'd with thy And sought the life of him that never wrong'd love. [Dies. Enter CHAMONT and ACASTO. Cas. Thou, unkind Chamont, thee: Cas. Patience! preach it to the winds, To roaring seas, or raging fires! for curs'd But, hear me, heav'n!-Ah! here's a scene of As I am now, 'tis this must give me patience: death! My sister, my Monimia, breathless!-Now, Castalio! Cas. Stand off! thou hot-brain'd, boisterous, And leave me to my sorrows. Thus I find rest, and shall complain no more. [Acasto faints into the Arms of a Servant. I bore her living, I will ne'er forsake her; plagu'd us. Cham. Thou canst not kill me! That would be kindness, and against thy nature! 'Tis thus that heav'n its empire does maintain: Acas. What means Castalio? Sure thou wilt It may afflict; but man must not complain. ⚫ not pull [Exeunt. PHILIPS. AMBROSE PHILIPS was descended from a very ancient and considerable family of that name in Leicestershire, He was born about the year 1671, and received his education at St. John's College, Cambridge. During his stay at the university he wrote his Pastorals, which acquired him at this time a high reputation. He also, in 1700 published a life of John Williams, Lord Keeper of the Great Seal, Bishop of Lincoln, and Archbishop of York, in the reigns of King James and Charles 1. in which are related some remarkable occurrences in those times, both in church and state; with an appendix, giving an account of his benefactions to St. John's College. When he quitted the university, and came to London, he became a constant attendant at, and one of the wits of, Button's coffee-house, where he obtained the friendship and intimacy of many of the celebrated geniuses of that age, more particularly of Sir Richard Steele, who, in the first volume of his Tatler, has inserted a little poem of Mr. Philips's, which he calls a Winter Piece, dated from Copenhagen, and addressed to the Earl of Dorset, on which he bestows the highest encomiums; and, indeed, so much justice is there in these his commendations that even Pope himself, who had a fixed aversion for the author, while he affected to despise his other works, used always to except this from the number. Sir R. Steele intended to produce Mr. Philips's Pastorals with a critical comparison of them, in favour of Philips, with Pope's; but Pope artfully took the task upon himself, and, in a paper in The Guardian, by drawing the like comparison, and giving a like preference, but on principles of criticism apparently fallacious tried to point out the absurdity of such a judgment. A quarrel ensued; Pope was too much for Philips in wit; and Philips would have been too much for Pope in fisty-cuffs, if he had made his appearance at Button's, where a rod had been hung up for him by Philips. Pope wisely avoided the argumentum baculinum. Mr. Philips's circumstances were in general, through his life, not only easy, but rather affluent, in consequence of his being connected, by his political principles with persons of great rank and consequence. He was, soon after the accession of King George 1, put into the commission of the peace; and, in 1717, appointed one of the commissioners of the lottery; and, on his friend Dr. Boulter's being made primate of Ireland, he accompanied that prelate across St. George's Channel, where he had considerable preferments bestowed on him, and was elected a member of the House of Commons there, as representative for the county of Armagh. In Sept. 1754, he was appointed register of the Prerogative Court in Dublin. At length, having purchased an annuity for life of four hundred pounds, he came over to England some time in the year 1748, but did not long enjoy his fortune, being struck with a palsy, of which he died June 18, 1749, in his 78th year, at his lodgings near Vauxhall. THE DISTREST MOTHER. ACTED at Drury Lane, 1719, This play is little more than a translation from the Andromaque of Racine. It is, however, very well translated, the poetry pleasing, and the incidents of the story so affecting that although it is, like all the French tragedies, rather too heavy and declamatory, yet it never fails bringing tears into the eyes of a sensible audience; and will, perhaps, ever continue to be a stock play on the lists of the theatres, The original author, however, has deviated from history and Philips likewise followed his example in making Hermione kill herself on the body of Pyrrhus, who had been slain by her instigation; whereas, on the contrary, she not only survived, but became wife to Orestes. How far the licentia poetica will authorize such oppositions to well-known facts of history, is, however, a point concerning which we have not time at present to enter into a disquisition. Dr. Johnson observes, that such a work requires no uncommon powers; but that the friends of Philips exerted every art to promote his interest. Before the appearance of the play, a whole Spectator, none indeed of the best, was devoted to its praise; while it yet continued to |