Doct.  Indeed ’tis equally reasonable.—­’Tis a Baud. [Aside.  But have you never serv’d Ladies?

Har.  Oh yes, I serv’d a Parson’s Wife?

Doct.  Is that a great Lady?

Har.  Ay, surely, Sir, what is she else? for she wore her Mantuas of Brocade d’or, Petticoats lac’d up to the Gathers, her Points, her Patches, Paints and Perfumes, and sat in the uppermost place in the Church too.

Mop.  But have you never serv’d Countesses and Dutchesses?

Har.  Oh, yes, Madam; the last I serv’d, was an Alderman’s Wife in the City.

Mop.  Was that a Countess or a Dutchess?

Har.  Ay, certainly—­for they have all the Money; and then for Clothes, Jewels, and rich Furniture, and eating, they out-do the very Vice-Reine her self.

Doct.  This is a very ignorant running Baud,—­therefore first search her for Billets-Doux, and then have her pump’d.

Har.  Ah, Seignior,—­Seignior.

[Scar. searches him, finds Letters.

Scar.  Ha, to Elaria—­and Bellemante!
                        [Reads the Outside, pops ’em into his Bosom. 
These are from their Lovers.—­Ha, a Note to Mopsophil.—­Oh, Rogue! have I found you?

Har.  If you have, ’tis but Trick for your Trick, Seignior Scaramouch, and you may spare the Pumping.

Scar.  For once, Sirrah, I’ll bring you off, and deliver your Letters.  —­Sir, do you not know who this is?  Why, ’tis a Rival of mine, who put on this Disguise to cheat me of Mistress Mopsophil.—­See, here’s a Billet to her.

Doct.  What is he?

Scar.  A Mungrel Dancing-Master; therefore, Sir, since all the Injury’s mine, I’ll pardon him for a Dance, and let the Agility of his Heels save his Bones, with your Permission, Sir.

Doct.  With all my Heart, and am glad he comes off so comically.

[Harlequin dances.

        [A knocking at the Gate.  Scar. goes and returns.

Scar.  Sir, Sir, here’s the rare Philosopher who was here yesterday.

Doct.  Give him Entrance, and all depart.

    Enter Charmante.

Char.  Blest be those Stars that first conducted me to so much Worth and Virtue; you are their Darling, Sir, for whom they wear their brightest Lustre.  Your Fortune is establish’d, you are made, Sir.

Doct.  Let me contain my Joy. [Keeping in an impatient Joy.  —­May I be worthy, Sir, to apprehend you?

Char.  After long searching, watching, fasting, praying, and using all the virtuous means in Nature, whereby we solely do attain the highest Knowledge in Philosophy; it was resolv’d, by strong Intelligence—­you were the happy Sire of that bright Nymph, that had infascinated, charm’d, and conquer’d the mighty Emperor Iredonozor, the Monarch of the Moon.