ble justice to the memory
Of a poor wretch, once honour'd with thy love. [_dies._

_Enter Chamont and Acasto._

_Cham._ Gape, earth, and swallow me to quick destruction,
If I forgive your house!
Ye've overpower'd me now!
But, hear me, heav'n!--Ah! here's a scene of death!
My sister, my Monimia, breathless!----Now,
Ye powers above, if ye have justice, strike!
Strike bolts through me, and through the curs'd Castalio!

_Cas._ Stand off; thou hot-brain'd, boisterous, noisy, ruffian!
And leave me to my sorrows.

_Cham._ By the love
I bore her living, I will ne'er forsake her;
But here remain till my heart burst with sobbing.

_Cas._ Vanish, I charge thee! or-- [_draws a dagger._

_Cham._ Thou canst not kill me!
That would be a kindness, and against thy nature!

_Acas._ What means Castalio? Sure thou wilt not pull
More sorrows on thy aged father's head!
Tell me, I beg you, tell me the sad cause
Of all this ruin.

_Cas._ Thou, unkind Chamont,
Unjustly hast pursu'd me with thy hate,
And sought the life of him that never wrong'd thee:
Now, if thou wilt embrace a noble vengeance,
Come join with me, and curse----

_Cham._ What?

_Acas._ Have patience.

_Cas._ Patience! preach it to the winds,
To roaring seas, or raging fires! for, curs'd
As I am now, 'tis this must give me patience:
Thus I find, rest, and shall complain no more. [_stabs himself._
Chamont, to thee my birthright I bequeath:--
Comfort my mourning father--heal his griefs;
[_Acasto faints into the arms of a Servant._

For I perceive they fall with weight upon him----
And, for Monimia's sake, whom thou wilt find
I never wrong'd, be kind to poor Serina----
Now all I beg is, lay me in one grave
Thus with my love: farewell! I now am nothing. [_dies._

_Cham._ Take care of good Acasto, whilst I go
To search the means by which the fates have plagu'd us.
'Tis thus that heav'n its empire does maintain:
It may afflict; but man must not complain. [_exeunt._

THE END.

Prologue.

To you, great judges, in this writing age,
The sons of wit, and patrons of the stage,
With all those humble thoughts, which still have sway'd
His pride much doubting, trembling and afraid
Of what is to his want of merit due,
And aw'd by every excellence in you,
The author sends to beg you will be kind,
And spare those many faults you needs must find.
You, to whom wit a common foe is grown,
The thing ye scorn and publicly