Doct.  Do you your Part, and because I know thee discreet and very secret, I will hereafter discover Wonders to thee.  On pain of Life, look to the Girls; that’s your Charge.

Scar.  Doubt me not, Sir, and I hope your Reverence will reward my faithful Services with Mopsophil, your Daughter’s Governante, who is rich, and has long had my Affection, Sir.

[Harlequin peeping, cries Oh Traitor!

Doct.  Set not thy Heart on transitory Mortal, there’s better things in store—­besides, I have promis’d her to a Farmer for his Son.—­Come in with me, and bring the Telescope.

[Ex.  Doctor and Scaramouch.

Harlequin comes out on the Stage.

Har.  My Mistress Mopsophil to marry a Farmer’s Son!  What, am I then forsaken, abandon’d by the false fair One?  If I have Honour, I must die with Rage; Reproaching gently, and complaining madly.  It is resolv’d, I’ll hang my self—­No, when did I ever hear of a Hero that hang’d him self?—­No, ’tis the Death of Rogues.  What if I drown my self?—­No, Useless Dogs and Puppies are drown’d; a Pistol or a Caper on my own Sword wou’d look more nobly, but that I have a natural Aversion to Pain.  Besides, it is as vulgar as Rats-bane, or the slicing of the Weasand.  No, I’ll die a Death uncommon, and leave behind me an eternal Fame.  I have somewhere read an Author, either antient or modern, of a Man that laugh’d to death.—­I am very ticklish, and am resolv’d to die that Death.—­Oh, Mopsophil, my cruel Mopsophil!
                                 [Pulls off his Hat, Sword and Shoes. 
And now, farewel the World, fond Love, and mortal Cares.

[He falls to tickle himself, his Head, his Ears, his Armpits, Hands, Sides, and Soles of his Feet; making ridiculous Cries and Noises of Laughing several ways, with Antick Leaps and Skips, at last falls down as dead.

Enter Scaramouch.

Scar.  Harlequin was left in the Garden, I’ll tell him the News
of Mopsophil. [Going forward, tumbles over him. 
Ha, what’s here? Harlequin dead!
                   [Heaving him up, he flies into a Rage.

Har.  Who is’t that thus wou’d rob me of my Honour?

Scar.  Honour, why I thought thou’dst been dead.

Ha.  Why, so I was, and the most agreeably dead.

Scar.  I came to bemoan with thee the mutual loss of our Mistress.

Har.  I know it, Sir, I know it, and that thou art as false as she:  Was’t not a Covenant between us, that neither shou’d take advantage of the other, but both shou’d have fair play, and yet you basely went to undermine me, and ask her of the Doctor; but since she’s gone, I scorn to quarrel for her—­But let’s like loving Brothers, hand in hand, leap from some Precipice into the Sea.

Scar.  What, and spoil all my Clothes?  I thank you for that; no, I have a newer way:  you know I lodge four pair of Stairs high, let’s ascend hither, and after saying our Prayers—­