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.