Chapter XXXIII: Act II

SCENE I. _A Chamber in the_ Doctor’s _House_.

_An Antick Dance_.

_After the Musick has plaid, enter_ Elaria; _to her_ Bellemante.

_Ela_. Heavens, _Bellemante_! Where have you been?

_Bell_. Fatigu’d with the most disagreeable Affair, for a Person of my Humour, in the World. Oh, how I hate Business, which I do no more mind, than a Spark does the Sermon, who is ogling his Mistress at Church all the while: I have been ruffling over twenty Reams of Paper for my Uncle’s Writings.

_Enter_ Scaramouch.

_Scar_. So, so, the old Gentleman is departed this wicked World, and the House is our own for this Night.--Where are the Sparks? where are the Sparks?

_Ela_. Nay, Heaven knows.

_Bell_. How! I hope not so; I left _Charmante_ confin’d to my Closet, when my Uncle had like to have surpriz’d us together: Is he not here?

_Ela_. No, he’s escap’d, but he has made sweet doings.

_Bell_. Heavens, Cousin! What?

_Ela_. My Father was coming into the Chamber, and had like to have taken _Cinthio_ with me, when, to conceal him, I put him into your Closet, not knowing of _Charmante’s_ being there, and which, in the dark, he took for a Gallant of mine; had not my Father’s Presence hinder’d, I believe there had been Murder committed; however they both escap’d unknown.

_Scar_. Pshaw, is that all? Lovers Quarrels are soon Adjusted; I’ll to ’.m, unfold the Riddle, and bring ‘em back--take no care, but go in and dress you for the Ball; _Mopsophil_ has Habits which your Lovers sent to put on: the Fiddles, Treat, and all are prepar’d. [_Exit_.

_Enter_ Mopsophil.

_Mop_. Madam, your Cousin _Florinda_, with a Lady, are come to visit you.

_Bell_. I’m glad on’t, ‘tis a good Wench, and we’ll trust her with our Mirth and Secret.

[_They go out_.

SCENE II. _Changes to the Street_.

_Enter Page with a Flambeaux, followed by_ Cinthio; _passes over
the Stage_. Scaramouch _follows_ Cinthio _in a Campaign Coat_.

_Scar_. ‘Tis _Cinthio_--Don _Cinthio_. [_Calls, he turns_. Well, what’s the Quarrel?--How fell ye out?

_Cin_. You may inform your self I believe, for these close Intrigues cannot be carried on without your Knowledge.

_Scar_. What Intrigues, Sir? be quick, for I’m in haste.

_Cin_. Who was the Lover I surpriz’d i’th’ Closet?

_Scar. Deceptio visus_, Sir; the Error of the Eyes.

_Cin_. Thou Dog, I felt him too; but since the Rascal ‘scaped me, I’ll be reveng’d on thee.

[_Goes to beat him; he running away, runs against_
Harlequin, _who is entering with_ Charmante, _and
like to have thrown ‘em both down_.

_Char_. Ha,--What’s the matter here?

_Scar_. Seignior Don _Charmante_.
[_Then he struts courageously in with ‘em_.

_Char_. What, _Cinthio_ in a Rage! Who’s the unlucky Object?

_Cin_. All Man and Woman Kind: _Elaria’s_ false.

_Char. Elaria_ false! take heed, sure her nice Virtue Is proof against the Vices of her Sex. Say rather _Bellemante_, She who by Nature’s light and wavering. The Town contains not such a false Impertinent. This Evening I surpriz’d her in her Chamber, Writing of Verses, and between her Lines Some Spark had newly pen’d his proper Stuff. Curse of the Jilt, I’ll be her Fool no more.

_Har_. I doubt you are mistaken in that, Sir, for ‘twas I was the Spark that writ the proper Stuff To do you service.

_Char_. Thou!

_Scar_. Ay, we that spend our Lives and Fortunes here to serve you,--to be us’d like Pimps and Scoundrels. Come, Sir, satisfy him who ‘twas was hid i’th’ Closet, when he came in and found you.

_Cin_. Ha,--is’t possible? Was it _Charmante_?

_Char_. Was it you, _Cinthio_? Pox on’t, what Fools are we, we cou’d not know one another by Instinct?

_Scar_. Well, well, dispute no more this clear Case, but let’s hasten to your Mistresses.

_Cin_. I’m asham’d to appear before _Elaria_.

_Char_. And I to _Bellemante_.

_Scar_. Come, come, take Heart of Grace; pull your Hats down over your Eyes; put your Arms across; sigh and look scurvily; your simple Looks are ever a Token of Repentance: come--come along.

[_Exeunt Omnes_.

SCENE III. _Changes to the Inside of the House. The Front of the Scene is only a Curtain or Hangings, to be drawn up at Pleasure_.

_Enter_ Elaria, Bellemante, Mopsophil, Florinda, _and Ladies,
dress’d in Masking Habits_.

_Ela_. I am extremely pleas’d with these Habits, Cousin.

_Bell_. They are _à la Gothic_ and _Uncommune_.

_Flor_. Your Lovers have a very good Fancy, Cousin, I long to see ‘em.

_Ela_. And so do I. I wonder _Scaramouch_ stays so, and what Success he has.

_Bell_. You have no cause to doubt, you can so easily acquit your self; but I, what shall I do? who can no more imagine who shou’d write those Boremes, than who I shall love next, if I break off with _Charmante_.

_Flor_. If he be a Man of Honour, Cousin, when a Maid protests her Innocence--

_Bell_. Ay, but he’s a Man of Wit too, Cousin, and knows when Women protest most, they likely lye most.

_Ela_. Most commonly, for Truth needs no asseveration.

_Bell_. That’s according to the Disposition of your Lover, for some believe you most, when you most abuse and cheat ‘em; some are so obstinate, they wou’d damn a Woman with Protesting, before she can convince ‘em.

_Ela_. Such a one is not worth convincing, I wou’d not make the World wise at the expence of a Virtue.

_Bell_. Nay, he shall e’en remain as Heaven made him for me, since there are Men enough for all uses.

_Enter_ Charmante _and_ Cinthio, _dress’d in their Gothic Habits_,
Scaramouch, Harlequin _and Musick_. Charmante _and_ Cinthio _kneel_.

_Cin_. Can you forgive us?

[Elaria _takes him up_.

_Bell_. That, _Cinthio_, you’re convinc’d, I do not wonder; but how _Charmante_ is inspir’d, I know not.

[_Takes him up_.

_Char_. Let it suffice, I’m satisfy’d, my _Bellemante_.

_Ela_. Pray know my Cousin _Florinda_.

[_They salute the Lady_.

_Bell_. Come, let us not lose time, since we are all Friends.

_Char_. The best use we can make of it, is to talk of Love.

_Bell_. Oh! we shall have time enough for that hereafter; besides, you may make Love in Dancing as well as in Sitting; you may gaze, sigh, and press the Hand, and now and then receive a Kiss, what wou’d you more?

_Char_. Yes, wish a little more.

_Bell_. We were unreasonable to forbid you that cold Joy, nor shall you wish long in vain, if you bring Matters so about, to get us with my Uncle’s Consent.

_Ela_. Our Fortunes depending solely on his Pleasure, which are too considerable to lose.

_Cin_. All things are order’d as I have written you at large; our Scenes and all our Properties are ready; we have no more to do but to banter the old Gentleman into a little more Faith, which the next Visit of our new Cabalist _Charmante_ will complete.

[_The Musick plays_.

_Enter some Anticks, and dance. They all sit the while_.

_Ela_. Your Dancers have performed well, but ‘twere fit we knew who we have trusted with this Evening’s Intrigue.

_Cin_. Those, Madam, who are to assist us in carrying on a greater Intrigue, the gaining of you. They are our Kinsmen.

_Ela_. Then they are doubly welcome.

[_Here is a Song in Dialogue, with Flute Doux and Harpsicals,
between a Shepherd and Shepherdess; which ended, they all dance
a Figure Dance_.

_Cin_. Hark, what Noise is that? sure ‘tis in the next Room.

_Doctor [Within.] Scaramouch, Scaramouch_!

[Scaramouch _runs to the Door, and holds it fast_.

_Scar_. Ha,--the Devil in the likeness of my old Master’s Voice, for it is impossible it should be he himself.

_Char_. If it be he, how got he in? did you not secure the Doors?

_Ela_. He always has a Key to open ‘em. Oh! what shall we do? there’s no escaping him; he’s in the next Room, through which you are to pass.

_Doct. [Within.] Scaramouch_, Knave, where are you?

_Scar_. ‘Tis he, ‘tis he, follow me all--

[_He goes with all the Company behind the Front Curtain_.

_Doct. [Within.]_ I tell you, Sirrah, I heard the noise of Fiddles.

_Peter. [_Within.]_ No surely, Sir, ‘twas a Mistake.

[_Knocking at the Door_.

[Scaramouch _having placed them all in the Hanging, in which they
make the Figures, where they stand without Motion in Postures, he
comes out. He opens the Door with a Candle in his Hand_.

_Enter the_ Doctor _and_ Peter _with a Light_.

_Scar_. Bless me, Sir! Is it you--or your Ghost?

_Doct_. ‘Twere good for you, Sir, if I were a thing of Air; but as I am a substantial Mortal, I will lay it on as substantially-- [_Canes him. He cries_.

_Scar_. What d’ye mean, Sir? what d’ye mean?

_Doct_. Sirrah, must I stand waiting your Leisure, while you are roguing here? I will reward ye. [_Beats him_.

_Scar_. Ay, and I shall deserve it richly, Sir, when you know all.

_Doct_. I guess all, Sirrah, and I heard all, and you shall be rewarded for all. Where have you hid the Fiddles, you Rogue?

_Scar_. Fiddles, Sir!

_Doct_. Ay, Fiddles, Knave.

_Scar_. Fiddles, Sir!--Where?

_Doct_. Here, here I heard ‘em, thou false Steward of thy Master’s Treasure.

_Scar_. Fiddles, Sir! Sure ‘twas Wind got into your Head, and whistled in your Ears, riding so late, Sir.

_Doct_. Ay, thou false Varlet, there’s another debt I owe thee, for bringing me so damnable a Lye: my Brother’s well--I met his Valet but a League from Town, and found thy Roguery out. [_Beats him. He cries_.

_Scar_. Is this the Reward I have for being so diligent since you went?

_Doct_. In what, thou Villain? in what?

[_The Curtain is drawn up, and discovers the Hangings where
all of them stand_.

_Scar_. Why, look you, Sir, I have, to surprize you with Pleasure, against you came home, been putting up this Piece of Tapestry, the best in Italy, for the Rareness of the Figures, Sir.

_Doct_. Ha! hum--It is indeed a Stately Piece of Work; how came I by ‘em?

_Scar_. ‘Twas sent your Reverence from the _Virtuoso_, or some of the Cabalists.

_Doct_. I must confess, the Workmanship is excellent;--but still I do insist I heard the Musick.

_Scar_. ‘Twas then the tuning of the Spheres, some Serenade, Sir, from the Inhabitants of the Moon.

_Doct_. Hum, from the Moon,--and that may be.

_Scar_. Lord, d’ye think I wou’d deceive your Reverence?

_Doct_. From the Moon, a Serenade,--I see no signs on’t here, indeed it must be so--I’ll think on’t more at leisure. [_Aside_. --Prithee what Story’s this? [_Looks on the Hangings_.

_Scar_. Why, Sir,--’Tis--

_Doct_. Hold up the Candles higher, and nearer.

[Peter _and_ Scaramouch _hold Candles near. He takes a Perspective,
and looks through it; and coming nearer_ Harlequin, _who is placed
on a Tree in the Hangings, hits him on the Head with his Trunchion.
He starts and looks about_. Harlequin _sits still.

_Scar_. Sir--

_Doct_. What was that struck me?

_Scar_. Struck you, Sir! Imagination.

_Doct_. Can my Imagination feel, Sirrah?

_Scar_. Oh, the most tenderly of any part about one, Sir!

_Doct_. Hum--that may be.

_Scar_. Are you a great Philosopher, and know not that, Sir?

_Doct_. This Fellow has a glimpse of Profundity. [_Aside. Looks again_. --I like the Figures well.

_Scar_. You will, when you see ‘em by Day-light, Sir.

[Har. _hits him again. The_ Doctor _sees him_.

_Doct_. Ha,--Is that Imagination too?--Betray’d, betray’d, undone! run for my Pistols, call up my Servants, _Peter_, a Plot upon my Daughter and my Niece!

[_Runs out with_ Peter. Scaramouch _puts out the Candle,
they come out of the Hanging, which is drawn away. He places
‘em in a Row just at the Entrance_.

_Scar_. Here, here, fear nothing, hold by each other, that when I go out, all may go; that is, slip out, when you hear the Doctor is come in again, which he will certainly do, and all depart to your respective Lodgings.

_Cin_. And leave thee to bear the Brunt?

_Scar_. Take you no care for that, I’ll put it into my Bill of Charges, and be paid all together.

_Enter the_ Doctor _with Pistols, and_ Peter.

_Doct_. What, by dark? that shall not save you, Villains, Traitors to my Glory and Repose.--_Peter_, hold fast the Door, let none ‘scape.

[_They all slip out_.

_Pet_. I’ll warrant you, Sir.

[Doctor _gropes about, stamps and calls_.

_Doct_. Lights there--Lights--I’m sure they cou’d not ‘scape.

_Pet_. Impossible, Sir.

_Enter_ Scaramouch _undress’d in his Shirt, with a Light; he starts_.

_Scar_. Bless me!--what’s here?

_Doct_. Ha--Who art thou? [_Amaz’d to see him enter so_.

_Scar_. I, who the Devil are you, and you go to that? [_Rubs his Eyes, and brings the Candle nearer, looks on him_. --Mercy upon us!--Why, what, is’t you, Sir, return’d so soon?

_Doct_. Return’d! [_Looking sometimes on him, sometimes about_.

_Scar_. Ay, Sir, did you not go out of Town last night, to your Brother the Advocate?

_Doct_. Thou Villain, thou question’st me, as if thou knew’st not that I was return’d.

_Scar_. I know, Sir! how shou’d I know? I’m sure I am but just awakened from the sweetest Dream.--

_Doct_. You dream still, Sirrah, but I shall wake your Rogueship.--Were you not here but now, shewing me a piece of Tapestry, you Villain?

_Scar_. Tapestry!

[Mopsophil _listning all the while_.

_Doct_. Yes, Rogue, yes, for which I’ll have thy Life.
[_Offering a Pistol_.

_Scar_. Are you stark mad, Sir? or do I dream still?

_Doct_. Tell me, and tell me quickly, Rogue, who were those Traitors that were hid but now in the Disguise of a piece of Hangings. [_Holds the Pistol to his Breast_.

_Scar_. Bless me! you amaze me, Sir. What conformity has every Word you say, to my rare Dream! Pray let me feel you, Sir,--Are you human?

_Doct_. You shall feel I am, Sirrah, if thou confess not.

_Scar_. Confess, Sir! What shall I confess?--I understand not your Cabalistical Language; but in mine, I confess that you wak’d me from the rarest Dream--Where methought the Emperor of the Moon World was in our House, dancing and revelling; and methoughts his Grace was fallen desperately in love with Mistriss _Elaria_, and that his Brother, the Prince, Sir, of _Thunderland_, was also in love with Mistriss _Bellemante_; and methoughts they descended to court ‘em in your Absence--And that at last you surpriz’d ‘em, and that they transform’d themselves into a Suit of Hangings to deceive you. But at last, methought you grew angry at something, and they all fled to Heaven again; and after a deal of Thunder and Lightning, I wak’d, Sir, and hearing human Voices here, came to see what the Matter was.

[_This while the_ Doctor _lessens his signs of Rage by degrees,
and at last stands in deep Contemplation_.

_Doct_. May I credit this?

_Scar_. Credit it! By all the Honour of your House, by my unseparable Veneration for the Mathematicks, ‘tis true, Sir.

_Doct_. That famous _Rosycrusian_, who yesterday visited me, and told me the Emperor of the Moon was in love with a fair Mortal--This Dream is Inspiration in this Fellow--He must have wondrous Virtue in him, to be worthy of these divine Intelligences. [_Aside_.--But if that Mortal shou’d be _Elaria_! but no more, I dare not yet suppose it--perhaps the thing was real and no Dream, for oftentimes the grosser part is hurried away in Sleep by the force of Imagination, and is wonderfully agitated --This Fellow might be present in his Sleep,--of this we’ve frequent Instances--I’ll to my Daughter and my Niece, and hear what Knowledge they may have of this.

_Mop_. Will you so? I’ll secure you, the Frolick shall go round.
[_Aside, and Exit_.

_Doct. Scaramouch_, if you have not deceiv’d me in this Matter, time will convince me farther; if it rest here, I shall believe you false.

_Scar_. Good Sir, suspend your Judgment and your Anger till then.

_Doct_. I’ll do’t, go back to bed.

[_Ex_. Doct. _and_ Peter.

_Scar_. No, Sir, ‘tis Morning now--and I’m up for all day.--This Madness is a pretty sort of pleasant Disease, when it tickles but in one Vein--Why, here’s my Master now, as great a Scholar, as grave and wise a Man, in all Argument and Discourse, as can be met with; yet name but the Moon, and he runs into ridicule, and grows as mad as the Wind.

Well, Doctor, if thou canst be madder yet,
We’ll find a Medicine that shall cure your Fit,

--Better than all _Galenicus_.

[_Goes out_.

SCENE IV. _Draws off to_ Bellemante’s _Chamber, discovers_ Elaria, Bellemante _and_ Mopsophil _in Night-Gowns_.

_Mop_. You have your Lessons, stand to it bravely, and the Town’s our own, Madam.

[_They put themselves in Postures of Sleeping, leaning on the
Table_, Mopsophil _lying at their Feet. Enter_ Doctor _softly_.

_Doct_. Ha, not in Bed! this gives me mortal Fears.

_Bell_. Ah, Prince-- [_She speaks as in her Sleep_.

_Doct_. Ha, Prince! [_Goes nearer, and listens_.

_Bell_. How little Faith I give to all your Courtship, who leaves our Orb so soon. [_In a feign’d Voice_.

_Doct_. Ha, said she Orb? [_Goes nearer_.

_Bell_. But since you are of a celestial Race, And easily can penetrate Into the utmost limits of the Thought, Why shou’d I fear to tell you of your Conquest? --And thus implore your Aid.

[_Rises and runs to the_ Doctor; _kneels,
and holds him fast. He shews signs of Joy_.

_Doct_. I am ravish’d!

_Bell_. Ah, Prince Divine, take pity on a Mortal.

_Doct_. I am rapt!

_Bell_. And take me with you to the World above!

_Doct_. The Moon, the Moon she means; I am transported, over-joy’d, and ecstasyd! [_Leaping and jumping from her Hands, she seems to wake_.

_Bell_. Ha, my Uncle come again to interrupt us!

_Doct_. Hide nothing from me, my dear _Bellemante_, since all already is discover’d to me--and more.

_Ela_. Oh, why have you wak’d me from the softest Dream that ever Maid was blest with?

_Doct_. What--what, my best _Elaria_? [_With over-joy_.

_Ela_. Methought I entertain’d a Demi-God, one of the gay Inhabitants of the Moon.

_Bell_. I’m sure mine was no Dream--I wak’d, I heard, I saw, I spoke--and danc’d to the Musick of the Spheres; and methought my glorious Lover ty’d a Diamond Chain about my Arm--and see ‘tis all substantial. [_Shows her Arm_.

_Ela_. And mine a Ring, of more than mortal Lustre.

_Doct_. Heaven keep me moderate! lest excess of Joy shou’d make my Virtue less. [_Stifling his Joy_. --There is a wondrous Mystery in this, A mighty Blessing does attend your Fates. Go in and pray to the chaste Powers above To give you Virtue for such Rewards. [_They go in_. --How this agrees with what the learned Cabalist inform’d me of last Night! He said, that great _Iredonozor_, the Emperor of the Moon, was enamour’d on a fair Mortal. It must be so--and either he descended to court my Daughter personally, which for the rareness of the Novelty, she takes to be a Dream; or else, what they and I beheld, was visionary, by way of a sublime Intelligence:--And possibly--’tis only thus: the People of that World converse with Mortals.--I must be satisfy’d in this main Point of deep Philosophy.

I’ll to my Study,--for I cannot rest,
Till I this weighty Mystery have discuss’d.

[_Ex. very gravely_.

SCENE V. _The Garden_.

_Enter_ Scaramouch _with a Ladder_.

_Scar_. Though I am come off _en Cavalier_ with my Master, I am not with my Mistress, whom I promised to console this Night, and ‘tis but just I shou’d make good this Morning; ‘twill be rude to surprize her sleeping, and more gallant to wake her with a Serenade at her Window.

[_Sets the Ladder to her Window, fetches his Lute and goes
up the ladder_.

He plays and sings this Song.

_When Maidens are young and in their Spring
Of Pleasure, of Pleasure, let ‘em take their full Swing,
full Swing,--full Swing,
And love, and dance, and play, and sing.
For_ Silvia, _believe it, when Youth is done,
There’s nought but hum drum, hum drum, hum drum;
There’s nought but hum drum, hum drum, hum drum.

Then_ Silvia _be wise--be wise--be wise,
Though Painting and Dressing for awhile are Supplies,
And may--surprise--
But when the Fire’s going out in your Eyes,
It twinkles, it twinkles, it twinkles, and dies.
And then to hear Love, to hear Love from you,
I’d as live hear an Owl cry--Wit to woo,
Wit to woo, wit to woo_.

_Enter _Mopsophil_ above_.

_Mop_. What woful Ditty-making Mortal’s this, That e’er the Lark her early Note has sung, Does doleful Love beneath my Casement thrum? -Ah, Seignior _Scaramouch_, is it you?

_Scar_. Who shou’d it be that takes such pains to sue!

_Mop_. Ah, Lover most true blue.

_Enter_ Harlequin _in Woman’s Clothes_.

_Har_. If I can now but get admittance, I shall not only deliver the young Ladies their Letters from their Lovers, but get some opportunity, in this Disguise, to slip this _Billet-Doux_ into _Mopsophil’s_ Hand, and bob my Comrade _Scaramouch_.--Ha, What do I see?--My Mistress at the Window, courting my Rival! Ah Gipsy!

_Scar_. But we lose precious time, since you design me a kind Hour in your Chamber.

_Har_. Oh Traitor!

_Mop_. You’ll be sure to keep it from _Harlequin_.

_Har_. Ah yes, he, hang him, Fool, he takes you for a Saint.

_Scar. Harlequin_! Hang him, shotten Herring.

_Har_. Ay, a Cully, a Noddy.

_Mop_. A meer Zany.

_Har_. Ah, hard-hearted _Turk_.

_Mop_. Fit for nothing but a Cuckold.

_Har_. Monster of Ingratitude! How shall I be reveng’d?
[_Scar, going over the Balcony_.
--Hold, hold, thou perjur’d Traitor.
[_Cries out in a Woman’s Voice_.

_Mop_. Ha, discover’d!--A Woman in the Garden!

_Har_. Come down, come down, thou false perfidious Wretch.

_Scar_. Who in the Devil’s Name, art thou? And to whom dost thou speak?

_Har_. To thee, that false Deceiver, thou hast broke thy Vows, thy lawful Vows of Wedlock. [_Bawling out_. Oh, oh, that I shou’d live to see the Day. [_Crying_.

_Scar_. Who mean you, Woman?

_Har_. Whom shou’d I mean but thou,--my lawful Spouse?

_Mop_. Oh Villain! Lawful Spouse!--Let me come to her.

[Scar, _comes down, as_ Mopsophil _flings out of the Balcony_.

_Scar_. The Woman’s mad--hark ye, Jade, how long have you been thus distracted?

_Har_. E’er since I lov’d and trusted thee, false Varlet.--See here, the Witness of my Love and Shame.

[_Bawls, and points to her Belly.

Just then_ Mopsophil _enters_.

_Mop_. How! with Child! Out, Villain! was I made a Property?

_Scar_. Hear me.

_Har_. Oh, thou Heathen Christian! was not one Woman enough?

_Mop_. Ay, Sirrah, answer to that.

_Scar_. I shall be sacrific’d.

_Mop_. I am resolv’d to marry to morrow--either to the Apothecary or the Farmer, Men I never saw, to be reveng’d on thee, thou termagant Infidel.

_Enter the_ Doctor.

_Doct_. What Noise, what Out-cry, what Tumult’s this?

_Har_. Ha, the Doctor!--What shall I do?
[_Gets to the Door_, Scar. _pulls her in_.

_Doct_. A Woman! some Baud I am sure;--Woman, what’s your Business here? ha.

_Har_. I came, an’t like your Seigniorship, to Madam the Governante here, to serve her in the Quality of a _Fille de Chambre_ to the young Ladies.

_Doct_. A _Fille de Chambre_! ‘tis so, a she Pimp.

_Har_. Ah, Seignior--
[_Makes his little dapper Leg, instead of a Curt’sy_.

_Doct_. How now, what, do you mock me?

_Har_. Oh Seignior! [_Gets nearer the Door_.

_Mop_. Stay, stay, Mistress; and what Service are you able to do the Seignior’s Daughters?

_Har_. Is this Seignior Doctor _Baliardo_, Madam?

_Mop_. Yes.

_Har_. Oh! he’s a very handsome Gentleman--indeed.

_Doct_. Ay, ay, what Service can you do, Mistress?

_Har_. Why, Seignior, I can tie a Crevat the best of any Person in _Naples_, and I can comb a Periwig--and I can--

_Doct_. Very proper Service for young Ladies; you, I believe, have been _Fille de Chambre_ to some young Cavaliers?

_Har_. Most true, Seignior; why shou’d not the Cavaliers keep _Filles de Chambre_, as well as great Ladies _Valets de Chambre_?

_Doct_. Indeed ‘tis equally reasonable.--’Tis a Baud. [_Aside_. But have you never serv’d Ladies?

_Har_. Oh yes, I serv’d a Parson’s Wife?

_Doct_. Is that a great Lady?

_Har_. Ay, surely, Sir, what is she else? for she wore her Mantuas of _Brocade d’or_, Petticoats lac’d up to the Gathers, her Points, her Patches, Paints and Perfumes, and sat in the uppermost place in the Church too.

_Mop_. But have you never serv’d Countesses and Dutchesses?

_Har_. Oh, yes, Madam; the last I serv’d, was an Alderman’s Wife in the City.

_Mop_. Was that a Countess or a Dutchess?

_Har_. Ay, certainly--for they have all the Money; and then for Clothes, Jewels, and rich Furniture, and eating, they out-do the very _Vice-Reine_ her self.

_Doct_. This is a very ignorant running Baud,--therefore first search her for _Billets-Doux_, and then have her pump’d.

_Har_. Ah, Seignior,--Seignior.

[Scar. _searches him, finds Letters_.

_Scar_. Ha, to _Elaria_--and _Bellemante_! [_Reads the Outside, pops ‘em into his Bosom_. These are from their Lovers.--Ha, a Note to _Mopsophil_.--Oh, Rogue! have I found you?

_Har_. If you have, ‘tis but Trick for your Trick, Seignior _Scaramouch_, and you may spare the Pumping.

_Scar_. For once, Sirrah, I’ll bring you off, and deliver your Letters. --Sir, do you not know who this is? Why, ‘tis a Rival of mine, who put on this Disguise to cheat me of Mistress _Mopsophil_.--See, here’s a Billet to her.

_Doct_. What is he?

_Scar_. A Mungrel Dancing-Master; therefore, Sir, since all the Injury’s mine, I’ll pardon him for a Dance, and let the Agility of his Heels save his Bones, with your Permission, Sir.

_Doct_. With all my Heart, and am glad he comes off so comically.

[Harlequin _dances_.

[_A knocking at the Gate_. Scar. _goes and returns_.

_Scar_. Sir, Sir, here’s the rare Philosopher who was here yesterday.

_Doct_. Give him Entrance, and all depart.

_Enter_ Charmante.

_Char_. Blest be those Stars that first conducted me to so much Worth and Virtue; you are their Darling, Sir, for whom they wear their brightest Lustre. Your Fortune is establish’d, you are made, Sir.

_Doct_. Let me contain my Joy. [_Keeping in an impatient Joy_. --May I be worthy, Sir, to apprehend you?

_Char_. After long searching, watching, fasting, praying, and using all the virtuous means in Nature, whereby we solely do attain the highest Knowledge in Philosophy; it was resolv’d, by strong Intelligence--you were the happy Sire of that bright Nymph, that had infascinated, charm’d, and conquer’d the mighty Emperor _Iredonozor_, the Monarch of the Moon.

_Doct_. I am undone with Joy! ruin’d with Transport. [_Aside_. --Can it--can it, Sir,--be possible? [_Stifling his Joy, which breaks out_.

_Char_. Receive the Blessing, Sir, with Moderation.

_Doct_. I do, Sir, I do.

_Char_. This very Night, by their great Art, they find, He will descend, and shew himself in Glory. An Honour, Sir, no Mortal has receiv’d This sixty hundred years.

_Doct_. Hum--say you so, Sir; no Emperor ever descend this sixty hundred years? [_Looks sad_. --Was I deceiv’d last Night? [_Aside_.

_Char_. Oh! yes, Sir, often in Disguise, in several Shapes and Forms, which did of old occasion so many fabulous Tales of all the Shapes of _Jupiter_--but never in their proper Glory, Sir, as Emperors. This is an Honour only design’d to you.

_Doct_. And will his Grace--be here in Person, Sir? [_Joyful_.

_Char_. In Person--and with him, a Man of mighty Quality, Sir, ‘tis thought, the Prince of _Thunderland_--but that’s but whisper’d, Sir, in the Cabal, and that he loves your Niece.

_Doct_. Miraculous! how this agrees with all I’ve seen and heard --To Night, say you, Sir?

_Char_. So ‘tis conjectur’d, Sir,--some of the Cabalists are of opinion, that last Night there was some Sally from the Moon.

_Doct_. About what Hour, Sir?

_Char_. The Meridian of the Night, Sir, about the Hours of Twelve or One; but who descended, or in what Shape, is yet uncertain.

_Doct_. This I believe, Sir.

_Char_. Why, Sir?

_Doct_. May I communicate a Secret of that nature?

_Char_. To any of the Cabalists, but none else.

_Doct_. Then know--last Night, my Daughter and my Niece were entertain’d by those illustrious Heroes.

_Char_. Who, Sir, the Emperor, and Prince his Cousin?

_Doct_. Most certain, Sir. But whether they appear’d in solid Bodies, or Fantomical, is yet a Question; for at my unlucky approach, they all transform’d themselves into a Piece of Hangings.

_Char_. ‘Tis frequent, Sir, their Shapes are numerous; and ‘tis also in their power to transform all they touch, by virtue of a certain Stone they call the _Ebula_.

_Doct_. That wondrous _Ebula_, which _Gonzales_ had?

_Char_. The same, by virtue of which, all Weight was taken from him, and then with ease the lofty Traveller flew from _Parnassus Hill_, and from _Hymethus Mount_, and high _Gerania_, and _Acrocorinthus_, thence to _Taygetus_, so to _Olympus_ Top, from whence he had but one step to the Moon. Dizzy he grants he was.

_Doct_. No wonder, Sir, Oh happy great _Gonzales_!

_Char_. Your Virtue, Sir, will render you as happy--but I must haste-- this Night prepare your Daughter and your Niece, and let your House be dress’d, perfum’d, and clean.

_Doct_. It shall be all perform’d, Sir.

_Char_. Be modest, Sir, and humble in your Elevation; for nothing shews the Wit so poor, as Wonder, nor Birth so mean, as Pride.

_Doct_. I humbly thank your Admonition, Sir, and shall, in all I can, struggle with human Frailty.

[_Brings_ Char. _to the Door bare. Exeunt_.

_Enter_ Scaramouch, _peeping at the other Door_.

_Scar_. So, so, all things go gloriously forward, but my own Amour, and there is no convincing this obstinate Woman, that ‘twas that Rogue _Harlequin_ in Disguise, claim’d me; so that I cannot so much as come to deliver the young Ladies their Letters from their Lovers. I must get in with this damn’d Mistress of mine, or all our Plot will be spoil’d for want of Intelligence. --Hum, the Devil does not use to fail me at a dead Lift. I must deliver these Letters, and I must have this Wench--though but to be reveng’d on her for abusing me--Let me see--she is resolv’d for the Apothecary or the Farmer. Well, say no more, honest _Scaramouch_; thou shalt find a Friend at need of me--and if I do not fit you with a Spouse, say that a Woman has out-witted me.

[_Exit_.

_The End of the Second Act_.