_Cham._ Curse on thy scandalous age, Which hinders me to rush upon thy throat, And tear the root up of that cursed bramble!
_Acas._ Ungrateful ruffian! sure my good old friend Was ne'er thy father! Nothing of him's in thee! What have I done, in my unhappy age, To be thus us'd? I scorn to upbraid thee, boy! But I could put thee in remembrance----
_Cham._ No, I'll calmly hear the story; For I would fain know all, to see which scale Weighs most.----Ha! is not that good old Acasto? What have I done?--Can you forgive this folly?
_Cham._ 'Twas the rude o'erflowing Of too much passion--Pray, my lord, forgive me. [_kneels._
_Acas._ Mock me not, youth! I can revenge a wrong.
_Cham._ I know it well--but for this thought of mine, Pity a madman's frenzy, and forget it.
_Acas._ I will; but henceforth pr'ythee be more kind. Whence came the cause? [_raises him._
_Cham._ Indeed, I've been to blame; For you've been my father-- You've been her father too. [_takes Monimia's hand._
_Acas._ Forbear the prologue, And let me know the substance of thy tale.
_Cham._ You took her up, a little tender flower, Just sprouted on a bank, which the next frost Had nipp'd; and with a careful, loving hand, Transplanted her into your own fair garden, Where the sun always shines: there long she flourish'd; Grew sweet to sense, and lovely to the eye; Till at the last a cruel spoiler came, Cropp'd this fair rose, and rifled all its sweetness, Then cast it like a loathsome weed away.
_Acas._ You talk to me in parables, Chamont: You may have known that I'm no wordy man. Fine speeches are the instruments of knaves, Or fools, that use them when they want good sense. But honesty Needs no disguise or ornament. Be plain.
_Acas._ I've two; and both, I hope, have honour.
_Cham._ I must inform you, Once more, Castalio----
_Cham._ Yes; Your son Castalio has wrong'd Monimia!
_Cham._ Why sorry? By yon blest heaven, there's not a lord But might be proud to take her to his heart.
_Cham._ You dare not; by the gods, You dare not. All your family combin'd In one damn'd falsehood, to outdo Castalio, Dare not deny't.
_Cham._ Ask that of him. I say, my sister's wrong'd: Monimia, my sister, born as high And noble as Castalio.--Do her justice, Or, by the gods, I'll lay a scene of blood Shall make this dwelling horrible to nature. I'll do't.--Hark you, my lord, your son Castalio, Take him to your closet, and there teach him manners.
