_Cham._ 'Tis sign there's danger in't must be prevented. 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; dear as the light To eyes but just restored, and healed of blindness. 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._ Oh, shouldst thou know the cause of my lamenting, I'm satisfied, Chamont, that thou wouldst scorn me; Thou wouldst despise the abject, lost Monimia; No more wouldst praise this hated beauty; but When in some cell, distracted, as I shall be, Thou seest me lie, these unregarded locks Matted like furies' tresses; my poor limbs Chained to the ground; and, 'stead of the delights Which happy lovers taste, my keeper's stripes, A bed of straw, and a coarse wooden dish Of wretched sustenance;--when thus thou seest me, Pr'ythee have charity and pity for me: Let me enjoy this thought! _Cham._ Why wilt thou rack My soul so long, Monimia? Ease me quickly; Or thou wilt run me into madness first. _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 used From a near friend; from one that has my soul A slave, and therefore treats it like a tyrant. _Cham._ I will be calm. But has Castalio wronged 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 lasts, I'm sure must break my heart. _Cham._ What has he done? _Mon._ Most barbarously used me: Nothing so kind as he, when in my arms, In thousand kisses, tender sighs and joys, Not to be thought again, the night was wasted. At dawn of day, he rose, and left his conquest; But when 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 begged to know the cause, He dragged me like a slave upon the earth, And had no pity on my cries.