_Mon._ 'Tis done. [_She faints._ _Pol._ She faints! No help! Who waits? A curse Upon my vanity, that could not keep The secret of my happiness in silence. Confusion! we shall be surprised anon; And consequently all must be betrayed. Monimia!--she breathes.--Monimia! _Mon._ Well; Let mischiefs multiply! Let every hour Of my loathed life yield me increase of horror! Oh, let the sun to these unhappy eyes Ne'er shine again, but be eclipsed for ever! May every thing I look on seem a prodigy, To fill my soul with terrors, till I quite Forget I ever had humanity, And grow a curser of the works of nature! _Pol._ What means all this? _Mon._ Oh, Polydore, if all The friendship e'er you vowed to good Castalio Be not a falsehood; if you ever loved Your brother, you've undone yourself and me. _Pol._ Which way can ruin reach the man that's rich, As I am, in possession of thy sweetness? _Mon._ Oh! I'm his wife. _Pol._ What says Monimia? ha! Speak that again. _Mon._ I am Castalio's wife. _Pol_. His married, wedded wife? _Mon._ Yesterday's sun Saw it performed. _Pol._ And then have I enjoyed My brother's wife? _Mon._ As surely as we both Must taste of misery, that guilt is thine. _Pol._ Must we be miserable then? _Mon._ Oh! _Pol_. Oh! thou mayst yet be happy. _Mon._ Couldst thou be Happy, with such a weight upon thy soul? _Pol._ It may be yet a secret: I'll go try To reconcile and bring Castalio to thee; Whilst from the world I take myself away, And waste my life in penance for my sin. _Mon._ Then thou wouldst more undo me; heap a load Of added sins upon my wretched head: Wouldst thou again have me betray thy brother, And bring pollution to his arms? curst thought! Oh, when shall I be mad indeed! _Pol._ Nay, then, Let us embrace, and from this very moment Vow an eternal misery together. _Mon._ And wilt thou be a very faithful wretch? Never grow fond of cheerful peace again? Wilt thou with me study to be unhappy, And find out ways how to increase affliction? _Pol._ We'll institute new arts unknown before To vary plagues, and make them look like new ones. First, if, the fruit of our detested joy, A child be born, it shall be murdered-- _Mon._ No; Sure that may live? _Pol._ Why? _Mon._ To become a thing More wretched than its parents; to be branded With all our infamy, and curse its birth.