Bell.  Ah, Malheureuse!  How was I mistaken in this Man?

Char.  Mistaken!  What, did you take me for an easy Fool to be impos’d upon?—­One that wou’d be cuckolded by every feather’d Fool; that you’d call a Beau un Gallant Homme.  ’Sdeath!  Who wou’d doat upon a fond She-Fop?—­a vain conceited amorous Coquette.
                             [Goes out, she pulls him back.

Enter Scaramouch running.

Sea.  Oh Madam! hide your Lover, or we are all undone.

Char.  I will not hide, till I know the thing that made the Verses.
                                 [The Doctor calling as on the Stairs.

Doct.  Bellemante, Niece,—­Bellemante.

Scar.  She’s coming, Sir.—­Where, where shall I hide him? 
—­Oh, the Closet’s open!
            [Thrusts him into the Closet by force.

Enter Doctor.

Doct.  Oh Niece!  Ill Luck, Ill Luck, I must leave you to night; my Brother the Advocate is sick, and has sent for me; ’tis three long Leagues, and dark as ’tis, I must go.—­They say he is dying.  Here, take my Keys, [Pulls out his Keys, one falls down. and go into my Study, and look over all my Papers, and bring me all those mark’d with a Cross and figure of Three, they concern my Brother and I.

[She looks on Scaramouch, and makes pitiful Signs, and goes out.

—­Come, Scaramouch, and get me ready for my Journey; and on your Life, let not a Door be open’d till my Return.

[Exeunt.

Enter Mopsophil.  Har. peeps from under the Table.

Har.  Ha! Mopsophil, and alone!

Mop.  Well, ’tis a delicious thing to be rich; what a world of Lovers it invites:  I have one for every Hand, and the Favorite for my Lips.

Har.  Ay, him wou’d I be glad to know. [Peeping.

Mop.  But of all my Lovers, I am for the Farmer’s Son, because he keeps a Calash—­and I’ll swear a Coach is the most agreeable thing about a Man.

Har.  Ho, ho!

Mop.  Ah, me,—­What’s that?

[He answers in a shrill Voice.

Har.  The Ghost of a poor Lover, dwindled into a Heyho.

    [He rises from under the Table, and falls at her Feet. 
    Scaramouch enters.  She runs off squeaking.

Scar.  Ha, My Rival and my Mistress!—­Is this done like a Man of Honour, Monsieur Harlequin, to take advantages to injure me? [Draws.

Har.  Advantages are lawful in Love and War.

Scar.  ’Twas contrary to our League and Covenant; therefore I defy thee as a Traytor.

Har.  I scorn to fight with thee, because I once call’d thee Brother.

Scar.  Then thou art a Poltroon, that’s to say, a Coward.