old:
So there was nothing of a piece about her.
Her lower weeds were all o'er coarsely patch'd
With diff'rent colour'd rags, black, red, white, yellow,
And seem'd to speak variety of wretchedness.
I ask'd her of my way, which she inform'd me;
Then crav'd my charity, and bade me hasten
To save a sister! at that word, I started!

_Mon._ The common cheat of beggars; every day
They flock about our doors, pretend to gifts
Of prophecy, and telling fools their fortunes.

_Cham._ Oh! but she told me such a tale, Monimia,
As in it bore great circumstance of truth:
Castalio and Polydore, my sister.

_Mon._ Ha!

_Cham._ What, alter'd? does your courage fail you?
Now, by my father's soul, the witch was honest.
Answer me, if thou hast not lost them
Thy honour at a sordid game?

_Mon._ I will,
I must, so hardly my misfortune loads me:--
That both have offer'd me their love's most true.

_Cham._ And 'tis as true too they have both undone thee.

_Mon._ Though they both with earnest vows
Have press'd my heart, if e'er in thought I yielded
To any but Castalio----

_Cham._ But Castalio!

_Mon._ Still will you cross the line of my discourse.
Yes, I confess that he hath won my soul
By gen'rous love and honourable vows,
Which he this day appointed to complete,
And make himself by holy marriage mine.

_Cham._ Art thou then spotless? hast thou still preserv'd
Thy virtue white, without a blot, untainted?

_Mon._ When I'm unchaste, may heaven reject my prayers;
O more, to make me wretched, may you know it!

_Cham._ Oh then, Monimia, art thou dearer to me
Than all the comforts ever yet bless'd man.
But let not marriage bait thee to thy ruin.
Trust not a man; we are by nature false,
Dissembling, subtle, cruel, and unconstant:
When a man talks of love, with caution trust him;
But if he swears, he'll certainly deceive thee.
I charge thee, let no more Castalio sooth thee;
Avoid it, as thou wouldst preserve the peace
Of a poor brother, to whose soul thou'rt precious.

_Mon._ I will.

_Cham._ Appear as cold, when next you meet, as great ones,
When merit begs; then shalt thou see how soon
His heart will cool, and all his pains grow easy. [_exit._

_Mon._ Yes, I will try him, torture him severely;
For, O Castalio, thou too much hast wrong'd me,
In leaving me to Polydore's ill usage.
He comes; and now, for once, O Love, stand neuter,
Whilst a hard part's perform'd; for I must tempt,
Wound, his soft nature, though my h