[Bellemante having got her Letters, goes off.  She makes Signs
    to him to stay a little.  He nods.

Doct.  Most likely, Sir.

Scar.  But, Sir, this Garamanteen relates the strangest Operation of a Mineral in the Lunar World, that ever I heard of.

Doct.  As how, I pray, Sir?

Scar.  Why, Sir, a Water impregnated to a Circulation with prima Materia; upon my Honour, Sir, the strongest I ever drank of.

Doct.  How, Sir! did you drink of it?

Scar.  I only speak the words of Garamanteen, Sir.  —­Pox on him, I shall be trapt. [Aside.

Doct.  Cry Mercy, Sir.—­ [Bows.

Scar.  The Lunary Physicians, Sir, call it Urinam Vulcani, it calybeates every ones Excrements more or less according to the Gradus of the natural Calor.—­To my Knowledge, Sir, a Smith of a very fiery Constitution is grown very opulent by drinking these Waters.

Doct.  How, Sir, grown rich by drinking the Waters, and to your Knowledge?

Scar.  The Devil’s in my Tongue.  To my Knowledge, Sir; for what a Man of Honour relates, I may safely affirm.

Doct.  Excuse me, Seignior—­
                      [Puts off his Hat again gravely.

Scar.  For, Sir, conceive me how he grew rich! since he drank those Waters he never buys any Iron, but hammers it out of Stercus Proprius.

Enter Bellemante with a Billet.

Bell.  Sir, ’tis three a Clock, and Dinner will be cold.

[Goes behind Scaramouch, and gives him the Note and goes out.

Doct.  I come, Sweet-heart; but this is wonderful.

Scar.  Ay, Sir, and if at any time Nature be too infirm, and he prove Costive, he has no more to do, but apply a Load-stone ad Anum.

Doct.  Is’t possible?

Scar.  Most true, Sir, and that facilitates the Journey per Viscera.  —­But I detain you, Sir;—­another time, Sir,—­I will now only beg the Honour of a Word or two with the Governante, before I go.

Doct.  Sir, she shall wait on you, and I shall be proud of the Honour of your Conversation.
                         [Ex.  Doctor.

Enter to him Harlequin, dress’d like a Farmer, as before.

Har.  Hum—­What have we here, a Taylor or a Tumbler?

Scar.  Ha—­Who’s this?—­Hum—­What if it shou’d be the Farmer that the
Doctor has promis’d Mopsophil to?  My Heart misgives me.
                                     [They look at each other a while. 
Who wou’d you speak with, Friend?

Har.  This is, perhaps, my Rival the Apothecary.—­Speak with, Sir! why, what’s that to you?

Scar.  Have you Affairs with Seignor Doctor, Sir?