_Cast._ Patience! preach it to the winds, To roaring seas, or raging fires! The knaves That teach it laugh at ye when ye believe them. Strip me of all the common needs of life, Scald me with leprosy, let friends forsake me, I'll bear it all; but, cursed to the degree That I am now, 'tis this must give me patience: Thus I find rest, and shall complain no more.[23] [_Stabs himself._ [_Dies._ _Pol._ Castalio! Oh! _Cast._ I come. Chamont, to thee my birthright I bequeath: Comfort my mourning father, heal his griefs, [ACASTO _faints into the arms of a_ Servant. For I perceive they fall with weight upon him; And for Monimia's sake, whom thou wilt find I never wronged, be kind to poor Serina. Now all I beg is, lay me in one grave Thus with my love. Farewell! I now am--nothing. [_Dies._ _Cham._ Take care of good Acasto, whilst I go To search the means by which the fates have plagued us. 'Tis thus that Heaven its empire does maintain; It may afflict, but man must not complain. [_Exeunt._ FOOTNOTES: [23] This may be rant, but it is rant in the right place. The line is a fine one that divides true from false hyperbole, but this utterance of Castalio has, I think, the real ring of maddened emotion, which is often absent from Dryden's heroic plays. Rage and despair do sometimes vent themselves in hyperbole and trope. Whether the poet can make us feel the utterance to be inevitable is the question, and that depends on his own sympathy with the situation. [Illustration: EPILOGUE.] SPOKEN BY SERINA. You've seen one Orphan ruined here; and I May be the next, if old Acasto die. Should it prove so, I'd fain amongst you find Who 'tis would to the fatherless be kind. To whose protection might I safely go? Is there amongst you no good-nature? No. What should I do? Should I the godly seek, And go a conventicling twice a week; Quit the lewd stage, and its profane pollution, Affect each form and saint-like institution; So draw the brethren all to contribution? Or shall I (as I guess the poet may Within these three days) fairly run away? No; to some city-lodgings I'll retire; Seem very grave, and privacy desire; Till I am thought some heiress rich in lands, Fled to escape a cruel guardian's hands: Which may produce a story worth the telling, Of the next sparks that go a fortune-stealing. [Illustration] [Illustration] _THE SOLDIER'S FORTUNE._ Quem recitas, meus est, O Fidentine, libellus; Sed male quum recitas, incipit esse tuus.[24]-- MARTIAL, Lib. I., Ep. 39. [Illustration] [Illustration]