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.