Har.  It may be I have, it may be I have not.  What then, Sir?

While they seem in angry Dispute, enter Mopsophil.

Mop.  Seignior Doctor tells me I have a Lover waits me, sure it must be the Farmer or the Apothecary.  No matter which, so a Lover that welcomest Man alive.  I am resolv’d to take the first good Offer, though but in revenge of Harlequin and Scaramouch, for putting Tricks upon me.  —­Ha,—­Two of ’em!

Scar.  My Mistress here!

[They both bow, and advance, putting each other by.

Mop.  Hold, Gentlemen,—­do not worry me.  Which of you wou’d speak with me?

Both.  I, I, I, Madam—­

Mop.  Both of you?

Both.  No, Madam, I, I.

Mop.  If both Lovers, you are both welcome; but let’s have fair Play, and take your turns to speak.

Har.  Ay, Seignior, ’tis most uncivil to interrupt me.

Scar.  And disingenuous, Sir, to intrude on me.

[Putting one another by.

Mop.  Let me then speak first.

Har.  I’m dumb.

Scar.  I acquiesce.

Mop.  I was inform’d there was a Person here had Propositions of Marriage to make me.

Har.  That’s I, that’s I—­
                   [Shoves Scar. away.

Scar.  And I attend to that consequential Finis.
                                       [Shoves Har. away.

Har.  I know not what you mean by your Finis, Seignior; but I am come to offer my self this Gentlewoman’s Servant, her Lover, her Husband, her Dog in a Halter, or any thing.

Scar.  Him I pronounce a Paltroon, and an ignominious Utensil, that dare lay claim to the renowned Lady of my Primum Mobile; that is, my best Affections. [In Rage.

Har.  I fear not your hard Words, Sir, but dare aloud pronounce, if Donna Mopsophil like me, the Farmer, as well as I like her, ’tis a Match, and my Chariot’s ready at the Gate to bear her off, d’ye see.

Mop.  Ah, how that Chariot pleads. [Aside.

Scar.  And I pronounce, that being intoxicated with the sweet Eyes of this refulgent Lady, I come to tender her my noblest Particulars, being already most advantageously set up with the circumstantial Implements of my Occupation. [Points to the Shop.

Mop.  A City Apothecary, a most genteel Calling—­Which shall I chuse?  —­Seignior Apothecary, I’ll not expostulate the circumstantial Reasons that have occasion’d me this Honour.

Scar.  Incomparable Lady, the Elegancy of your Repartees most excellently denotes the Profundity of your Capacity.

Har.  What the Devil’s all this?  Good Mr. Conjurer, stand by—­and don’t fright the Gentlewoman with your elegant Profundities. [Puts him by.