Doct.  Just, just, as ’tis here.—­But pray, Sir, how do these Great men live with their Wives?

Har.  Most nobly, Sir, my Lord keeps his Coach, my Lady hers; my Lord his Bed, my Lady hers; and very rarely see one another, unless they chance to meet in a Visit, in the Park, the Mall, the Tour, or at the Basset-Table, where they civilly salute and part, he to his Mistress, she to play.

Doct.  Good lack! just as ’tis here.

Har.—­Where, if she chance to lose her Money, rather than give out, she borrows of the next amorous Coxcomb, who, from that Minute, hopes, and is sure to be paid again one way or other, the next kind Opportunity.

Doct.—­Just as ’tis here.

Har.  As for the young Fellows that have Money, they have no Mercy upon their own Persons, but wearing Nature off as fast as they can, Swear, and Whore and Drink, and borrow as long as any Rooking Citizen will lend till, having dearly purchased the heroick Title of a Bully or a Sharper, they live pity’d of their Friends, and despis’d by their Whores, and depart this Transitory World, diverse and sundry ways.

Doct.  Just, just as ’tis here!

Har.  As for the Citizen, Sir, the Courtier lies with his Wife; he in revenge, cheats him of his Estate, till rich enough to marry his Daughter to a Courtier, again gives him all—­unless his Wife’s over-gallantry breaks him; and thus the World runs round.

Doct.  The very same ’tis here—­Is there no preferment, Sir, for Men of Parts and Merit?

Har.  Parts and Merit! what’s that? a Livery, or the handsome tying a Cravat; for the great Men prefer none but their Foot-men and Valets.

Doct.  By my Troth, just as ’tis here.—­Sir, I find you are a Person of most profound Intelligence—­under Favour, Sir, are you a Native of the Moon, or this World?

Har.  The Devil’s in him for hard Questions.  —­I am a Neapolitan, Sir?

Doct.  Sir, I Honour you; good luck, my Countryman!  How got you to the Region of the Moon, Sir?

Har.  A plaguy inquisitive old Fool!  —­Why, Sir, —­Pox on’t, what shall I say?  —­I being—­one day in a musing Melancholy, walking by the Sea-side—­ there arose, Sir, a great Mist, by the Sun’s exhaling of the Vapours of the Earth, Sir.

Doct.  Right, Sir.

Har.  In this Fog, or Mist, Sir, I was exhal’d.

Doct.  The Exhalations of the Sun draw you to the Moon, Sir?

Har.  I am condemn’d to the Blanket again.  —­I say, Sir, I was exhal’d up, but in my way—­being too heavy, was drop’d into the Sea.

Doct.  How, Sir, into the Sea?

Har.  The Sea, Sir, where the Emperor’s Fisherman casting his Nets, drew me up, and took me for a strange and monstrous Fish, Sir,—­and as such, presented me to his Mightiness,—­who going to have me Spitchcock’d for his own eating—­