Dash thee disdainfully away, with scorn? Mon. He did. Cham. What! throw thee from him? Mon. Yes, indeed, he did! Cham. So may this arm Throw him to th' earth, like a dead dog despis'd. Lameness and leprosy, blindness and lunacy, Poverty, shame, pride, and the name of villain, Light on me, if, Castalio, I forgive thee! Mon. Nay, now, Chamont, art thou unkind as he is! Didst thou not promise me thou wouldst be calm? Keep my disgrace conceal'd? Alas, I love him still; and though I ne'er Clasp him again within these longing arms, Yet bless him, bless him, gods, where'er he goes! Enter Acasto. Acas. Sure some ill fate is tow'rds me; in my house I only meet with oddness and disorder. Just this very moment I met Castalio too—— Cham. Then you met a villain. Acas. Ha! Cham. Yes, a villain! Acas. Have a care, young soldier, How thou'rt too busy with Acasto's fame. I have a sword, my arm's good old acquaintance:— Villain, to thee. Cham. Curse on thy scandalous age, Which hinders me to rush upon thy throat, And tear the root up of that cursed bramble! Acas. Ungrateful ruffian! sure my good old friend Was ne'er thy father! Nothing of him's in thee! What have I done, in my unhappy age, To be thus us'd? I scorn to upbraid thee, boy! But I could put thee in remembrance—— Cham. Do. Acas. I scorn it. Cham. No, I'll calmly hear the story; For I would fain know all, to see which scale Weighs most.——Ha! is not that good old Acasto? What have I done?—Can you forgive this folly? Acas. Why dost thou ask it? Cham. 'Twas the rude o'erflowing Of too much passion—Pray, my lord, forgive me.[kneels. Acas. Mock me not, youth! I can revenge a wrong. Cham. I know it well—but for this thought of mine, Pity a madman's frenzy, and forget it. Acas. I will; but henceforth pr'ythee be more kind. Whence came the cause?[raises him. Cham. Indeed, I've been to blame; For you've been my father— You've been her father too.[takes Monimia's hand. Acas. Forbear the prologue, And let me know the substance of thy tale. Cham. You took her up, a little tender flower, Just sprouted on a bank, which the next frost Had nipp'd; and with a careful, loving hand, Transplanted her into your own fair garden, Where the sun always shines: there long she flourish'd; Grew sweet to sense, and lovely to the eye; Till at the last a cruel spoiler came, Cropp'd this fair rose, and rifled all its sweetness, Then cast it like a loathsome weed away. Acas. You talk to me in parables, Chamont: You may have known that I'm no wordy man. Fine speeches are the instruments of knaves, Or fools, that use them when they want good sense. But honesty Needs no disguise or ornament. Be plain. Cham. Your son—— Acas. I've two; and both, I hope, have honour. Cham. I hope so too; but—— Acas. Speak. Cham. I must inform you,