_Enter_ ACASTO _leaning on two_ Attendants. _Acast._ Support me, give me air; I'll yet recover: 'Twas but a slip decaying Nature made, For she grows weary near her journey's end. Where are my sons? Come near, my Polydore: Your brother! where's Castalio? _Serv._ My lord, I've searched, as you commanded, all the house: He and Monimia are not to be found. _Acast._ Not to be found! then where are all my friends? Tis well;-- I hope they'll pardon an unhappy fault My unmannerly infirmity has made. Death could not come in a more welcome hour, For I'm prepared to meet him; and, methinks, Would live and die with all my friends about me. _Enter_ CASTALIO. _Cast._ Angels preserve my dearest father's life; Bless it with long, uninterrupted days! Oh! may he live till time itself decay; Till good men wish him dead, or I offend him! _Acast._ Thank you, Castalio; give me both your hands, And bear me up; I'd walk. So, now, methinks, I appear as great as Hercules himself, Supported by the pillars he had raised. _Cast._ My lord, your chaplain. _Acast._ Let the good man enter. _Enter_ Chaplain. _Chap._ Heaven guard your lordship, and restore your health! _Acast._ I have provided for thee if I die. No fawning! 'tis a scandal to thy office. My sons, as thus, united, ever live; And for the estate, you'll find, when I am dead, I have divided it betwixt you both, Equally parted, as you shared my love; Only to sweet Monimia I've bequeathed Ten thousand crowns; a little portion for her, To wed her honourably as she's born. Be not less friends because you're brothers; shun The man that's singular,--his mind's unsound, His spleen o'erweighs his brains; but, above all, Avoid the politic, the factious fool, The busy, buzzing, talking, hardened knave, The quaint smooth rogue, that sins against his reason; Calls saucy loud suspicion public zeal, And mutiny the dictates of his spirit: Be very careful how ye make new friends. Men read not morals now; it was a custom: But all are to their fathers' vices born, And in their mothers' ignorance are bred. Let marriage be the last mad thing ye do, For all the sins and follies of the past. If you have children, never give them knowledge; 'Twill spoil their fortune; fools are all the fashion. If you've religion, keep it to yourselves; Atheists will else make use of toleration, And laugh you out on't: never show religion, Except ye mean to pass for knaves of conscience, And cheat believing fools that think ye honest. _Enter_ SERINA. _Ser._ My father! _Acast._ My heart's darling!