Tell me the story of thy wrongs, and then See if my soul has rest, till thou hast justice. Mon. My brother! Cham. Yes, Monimia, if thou think'st That I deserve the name, I am thy brother. Mon. O Castalio! Cham. Ha! Name me that name again! my soul's on fire Till I know all!—There's meaning in that name:— I know he is thy husband; therefore, trust me With the following truth. Mon. Indeed, Chamont, There's nothing in it but the fault of nature: I'm often thus seiz'd suddenly with grief, I know not why. Cham. You use me ill, Monimia; And I might think, with justice, most severely Of this unfaithful dealing with your brother. Mon. Truly I'm not to blame. Suppose I'm fond, And grieve for what as much may please another? Should I upbraid the dearest friend on earth For the first fault? You would not do so, would you? Cham. Not if I'd cause to think it was a friend. Mon. Why do you then call this unfaithful dealing? I ne'er conceal'd my soul from you before: Bear with me now, and search my wounds no further; For every probing pains me to the heart. Cham. 'Tis sign there's danger in't, and must be prob'd. Where's your new husband? Still that thought disturbs you— What! only answer me with tears?—Castalio! Nay, now they stream:— Cruel, unkind, Castalio!—Is't not so? Mon. I cannot speak;—grief flows so fast upon me, It chokes, and will not let me tell the cause. Oh!—— Cham. My Monimia! to my soul thou'rt dear As honour to my name! Why wilt thou not repose within my breast The anguish that torments thee? Mon. Oh! I dare not. Cham. I have no friend but thee. We must confide In one another.—Two unhappy orphans, Alas! we are! and when I see thee grieve, Methinks it is a part of me that suffers. Mon. Could you be secret? Cham. Secret as the grave. Mon. But when I've told you, will you keep your fury Within its bounds? Will you not do some rash And horrid mischief? For, indeed, Chamont, You would not think how hardly I've been us'd From a dear friend—from one that has my soul A slave, and therefore treats it like a tyrant. Cham. I will be calm.—But has Castalio wrong'd thee? Has he already wasted all his love? What has he done?—quickly! for I'm all trembling With expectation of a horrid tale! Mon. Oh! could you think it? Cham. What? Mon. I fear, he'll kill me! Cham. Ha! Mon. Indeed, I do: he's strangely cruel to me; Which, if it last, I'm sure must break my heart. Cham. What has he done? Mon. Most barbarously us'd me. Just as we met, and I, with open arms, Ran to embrace the lord of all my wishes, Oh then—— Cham. Go on! Mon. He threw me from his breast, Like a detested sin. Cham. How! Mon. As I hung too Upon his knees, and begg'd to know the cause, He dragg'd me, like a slave, upon the earth, And had no pity on my cries. Cham. How! did he