[_Exeunt all but_ CHAMONT _and_ Chaplain. _Cham._ Hist, hist, Sir Gravity, a word with you. _Chap._ With me, sir? _Cham._ If you're at leisure, sir, we'll waste an hour; 'Tis yet too soon to sleep, and 'twill be charity To lend your conversation to a stranger. _Chap._ Sir, you're a soldier? _Cham._ Yes. _Chap._ I love a soldier; And had been one myself, but my parents would make me what you see me: yet I'm honest, for all I wear black. _Cham._ And that's a wonder. Have you had long dependence on this family? _Chap._ I have not thought it so, because my time's Spent pleasantly. My lord's not haughty nor imperious, Nor I gravely whimsical; he has good nature, And I have manners: His sons too are civil to me, because I do not pretend to be wiser than they are; I meddle with no man's business but my own; I rise in a morning early, study moderately, eat and drink cheerfully, live soberly, take my innocent pleasures freely; so meet with respect, and am not the jest of the family. _Cham._ I'm glad you are so happy.-- A pleasant fellow this, and may be useful. [_Aside._ Knew you my father, the old Chamont? _Chap._ I did, and was most sorry when we lost him. _Cham._ Why? didst thou love him? _Chap._ Everybody loved him; besides, he was my master's friend. _Cham._ I could embrace thee for that very notion. If thou didst love my father, I could think Thou wouldst not be an enemy to me. _Chap._ I can be no man's foe. _Cham._ Then pr'ythee tell me, Think'st thou the Lord Castalio loves my sister? Nay, never start. Come, come, I know thy office Opens thee all the secrets of the family. Then, if thou'rt honest, use this freedom kindly. _Chap._ Loves your sister! _Cham._ Ay, loves her. _Chap._ Sir, I never asked him; and wonder you should ask it me. _Cham._ Nay, but thou'rt an hypocrite; is there not one Of all thy tribe that's honest in your schools? The pride of your superiors makes ye slaves: Ye all live loathsome, sneaking, servile lives; Not free enough to practise generous truth, Though ye pretend to teach it to the world. _Chap._ I would deserve a better thought from you. _Cham._ If thou wouldst have me not contemn thy office And character, think all thy brethren knaves, Thy trade a cheat, and thou its worst professor, Inform me; for I tell thee, priest, I'll know. _Chap._ Either he loves her, or he much has wronged her. _Cham._ How, wronged her! have a care; for this may lay A scene of mischief to undo us all. But tell me--wronged her, saidst thou? _Chap._ Ay, sir, wronged her. _Cham._ This is a secret worth a monarch's fortune: What shall I give thee for't? thou dear physician Of sickly souls, unfold this riddle to me, And comfort mine--