And can this be--Can Philip be so false? Dwells there such Baseness in a Brother's Heart? So much Dissimulation in the Earth? Is there such Perfidy among Mankind? It shocks my Faith--But yet it must be so-- Yes, it was he, Monelia, shed thy Blood. This made him forward to commence our Friend, And with unusual Warmth engage to help us; It was for this so cheerful he resign'd To me the Honour of Command in War; The English Troops would never come so near; The Wounds were not inflicted by their Arms. All, all confirms the Guilt on Philip's Head. You died, Monelia, by my Brother's Hand; A Brother too intrusted with our Love. I'm stupify'd and senseless at the Thought; My Head, my very Heart is petrify'd. This adds a Mountain to my Weight of Woe. It now is swell'd too high to be lamented; Complaints, and Sighs, and Tears are thrown away, Revenge is all the Remedy that's left; But what Revenge is equal to the Crime? His Life for her's! An Atom for the Earth-- A Single Fly--a Mite for the Creation: Turn where I will I find myself confounded: But I must seek and study out new Means. Help me, ye Powers of Vengeance! grant your Aid, Ye that delight in Blood, and Death, and Pain! Teach me the Arts of Cruelty and Wrath, Till I have Vengeance equal to my Love, And my Monelia's Shade is satisfied. [ (Exit.)

Chekitan Monologue from Ponteach; Or, The Savages of America

Rehearse Chekitan's monologue