gh my mother bore thee!
[_they fight; Polydore runs on Castalio's sword._

_Pol._ Now my Castalio is again my friend.

_Cas._ What have I done? my sword is in thy breast.

_Pol._ So would I have it be, thou best of men,
Thou kindest brother, and thou truest friend!

_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?

_Pol._ Blame not the heav'ns, 'tis Polydore has wrong'd thee;
I've stain'd thy bed; thy spotless marriage joys
Have been polluted by thy brother's lust.

_Cas._ By thee?

_Pol._ By me, last night, the horrid deed
Was done, when all things slept but rage and incest.

_Cas._ Now, where's Monimia? Oh!

_Enter Monimia._

_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
Thou hadst undone me in successful love,
I, in the dark, went and supplied thy place;
Whilst all the night, midst our triumphant joys,
The trembling, tender, kind, deceiv'd Monimia,
Embrac'd, caress'd, and call'd me her Castalio. [_dies._

_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 you?

_Cas._ O, I'm the unhappy wretch, whose cursed fate
Has weigh'd you 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.
When I am dead, as presently I shall be
(For the grim tyrant grasps my hand 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 no