Doct.  But do you imagine, Sir, they will fall in love with an old Mortal?

Char.  They love not like the Vulgar, ’tis the immortal Part they doat upon.

Doct.  But, Sir, I have a Niece and Daughter which I love equally, were it not possible they might be immortaliz’d?

Char.  No doubt on’t, Sir, if they be pure and chaste.

Doct.  I think they are, and I’ll take care to keep ’em so; for I confess, Sir, I would fain have a Hero to my Grandson.

Char.  You never saw the Emperor of the Moon, Sir, the mighty Iredonozar?

Doct.  Never, Sir; his Court I have, but ’twas confusedly too.

Char.  Refine your Thoughts, Sir, by a Moment’s Prayer, and try again.

    [He prays.  Char. claps the Glass with the Emperor on it,
    he looks in and sees it.

Doct.  It is too much, too much for mortal Eyes!  I see a Monarch seated on a Throne—­but seems most sad and pensive.

Char.  Forbear then, Sir; for now his Love-Fit’s on, and then he wou’d be private.

Doct.  His Love-Fit, Sir!

Char.  Ay, Sir, the Emperor’s in love with some fair Mortal.

Doct.  And can he not command her?

Char.  Yes, but her Quality being too mean, he struggles, though a King, ’twixt Love and Honour.

Doct.  It were too much to know the Mortal, Sir?

Char.  ’Tis yet unknown, Sir, to the Caballists, who now are using all their Arts to find her, and serve his Majesty; but now my great Affair deprives me of you:  To morrow, Sir, I’ll wait on you again; and now I’ve try’d your Virtue, tell you Wonders.

Doct.  I humbly kiss your Hands, most learned Sir.

[Charmante goes out.  Doctor waits on him to the Door, and returns:  to him Scaramouch. All this while Harlequin was hid in the Hedges, peeping now and then, and when his Master went out he was left behind.

Scar.  So, so, Don Charmante has played his Part most exquisitely; I’ll in and see how it works in his Pericranium.  —­Did you call, Sir?

Doct.  Scaramouch, I have, for thy singular Wit and Honesty, always had a Tenderness for thee above that of a Master to a Servant.

Scar.  I must confess it, Sir.

Doct.  Thou hast Virtue and Merit that deserves much.

Scar.  Oh Lord, Sir!

Doct.  And I may make thee great;—­all I require, is, that thou wilt double thy diligent Care of my Daughter and my Niece; for there are mighty things design’d for them, if we can keep ’em from the sight of Man.

Scar.  The sight of Man, Sir!

Doct.  Ay, and the very Thoughts of Man.

Scar.  What Antidote is there to be given to a young Wench, against the Disease of Love and Longing?