at's a wonder! pr'ythee, tell it me.

_Page._ 'Tis--'tis--I know who--but will
You give me the horse, then?

_Cas._ I will, my child.

_Page._ It is my lady Monimia, look you; but don't you tell her I told
you: she'll give me no more playthings then. I heard her say so, as she
lay abed, man.

_Cas._ Talk'd she of me when in her bed, Cordelio?

_Page._ Yes; and I sung her the song you made too; and she did so sigh,
and look with her eyes!

_Cas._ Hark! what's that noise?
Take this; be gone, and leave me.
You knave, you little flatterer, get you gone. [_ex. Page._
Surely it was a noise, hist!----only fancy;
For all is hush'd, as nature were retir'd.
'Tis now, that, guided by my love, I go
To take possession of Monimia's arms.
Sure Polydore's by this time gone to bed. [_knocks._
She hears me not? sure, she already sleeps!
Her wishes could not brook so long delay,
And her poor heart has beat itself to rest. [_knocks._
Once more----

_Flo._ [_at the window_] Who's there,
That comes thus rudely to disturb our rest?

_Cas._ 'Tis I.

_Flo._ Who are you? what's your name?

_Cas._ Suppose the lord Castalio.

_Flo._ I know you not.
The lord Castalio has no business here.

_Cas._ 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.

_Flo._ Whoe'er you are, you may repent this outrage:
My lady must not be disturb'd. Good night!

_Cas._ She must! tell her, she shall; go, I'm in haste,
And bring her tidings from the state of love.

_Flo._ Sure the man's mad!

_Cas._ 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!

_Flo._ My lady's answer is, you may depart.
She says she knows you: you are Polydore,
Sent by Castalio, as you were to-day,
T'affront and do her violence again.

_Cas._ I'll not believe't.

_Flo._ You may, sir.

_Cas._ Curses blast thee!

_Flo._ Well, 'tis a fine cool ev'ning! and I hope
May cure the raging fever in your blood!
Good night.

_Cas._ And farewell all that's just in woman!
This is contriv'd, a study'd trick, to abuse
My easy nature, and torment my mind!
'Tis impudence to think my soul will bear it!
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 do