_Flor._ Who are you? what's your name? _Cast._ Suppose The Lord Castalio. _Flor._ I know you not. The Lord Castalio has no business here. _Cast._ 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. _Flor._ Whoe'er ye are, ye may repent this outrage; My lady must not be disturbed. Good-night. _Cast._ She must, tell her she shall; go, I'm in haste, And bring her tidings from the State of Love; They're all in consultation met together, How to reward my truth, and crown her vows. _Flor._ Sure the man's mad! _Cast._ 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. _Flor._ My lady's answer is, you may depart; She says she knows you: you are Polydore, Sent by Castalio, as you were to-day, To affront and do her violence again. _Cast._ I'll not believe't. _Flor._ You may, sir. _Cast._ Curses blast thee! _Flor._ Well, 'tis a fine cool evening; and I hope May cure the raging fever in your blood. Good-night. [_Retires._ _Cast._ And farewell all that's just in woman! This is contrived, a studied trick to abuse My easy nature, and torment my mind; Sure now she has bound me fast, and means to lord it, To rein me hard, and ride me at her will, Till by degrees she shape me into fool For all her future uses. Death and torment! 'Tis impudence to think my soul will bear it. Oh, I could grow even wild, and tear my hair 'Tis well, Monimia, that thy empire's short 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 down._ Where I will ruminate on woman's ills, Laugh at myself, and curse the inconstant sex. Faithless Monimia! O Monimia! _Enter_ ERNESTO. _Ern._ Either My sense has been deluded, or this way I heard the sound of sorrow; 'tis late night, And none whose mind's at peace would wander now. _Cast._ Who's there? _Ern._ A friend. _Cast._ If thou art so, retire, And leave this place; for I would be alone. _Ern._ Castalio! My lord, why in this posture, Stretched on the ground? Your honest, true, old servant, Your poor Ernesto, cannot see you thus; Rise, I beseech you. _Cast._ If thou art Ernesto, As by thy honesty thou seem'st to be, Once leave me to my folly.