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.

Mop. Ha, discover’d!—A Woman in the Garden!

Har. Come down, come down, thou false perfidious Wretch.

Scar. Who in the Devil’s Name, art thou? And to whom dost thou speak?

Har. To thee, that false Deceiver, thou hast broke thy Vows, thy lawful Vows of Wedlock. [Bawling out. Oh, oh, that I shou’d live to see the Day. [Crying.

Scar. Who mean you, Woman?

Har. Whom shou’d I mean but thou,—my lawful Spouse?

Mop. Oh Villain! Lawful Spouse!—Let me come to her.

[Scar, comes down, as Mopsophil flings out of the Balcony.

Scar. The Woman’s mad—hark ye, Jade, how long have you been thus distracted?

Har. E’er since I lov’d and trusted thee, false Varlet.—See here, the Witness of my Love and Shame.

[_Bawls, and points to her Belly.

Just then_ Mopsophil enters.

Mop. How! with Child! Out, Villain! was I made a Property?

Scar. Hear me.

Har. Oh, thou Heathen Christian! was not one Woman enough?

Mop. Ay, Sirrah, answer to that.

Scar. I shall be sacrific’d.

Mop. I am resolv’d to marry to morrow—either to the Apothecary or the Farmer, Men I never saw, to be reveng’d on thee, thou termagant Infidel.

Enter the Doctor.

Doct. What Noise, what Out-cry, what Tumult’s this?

Har. Ha, the Doctor!—What shall I do? [Gets to the Door, Scar. pulls her in.

Doct. A Woman! some Baud I am sure;—Woman, what’s your Business here? ha.

Har. I came, an’t like your Seigniorship, to Madam the Governante here, to serve her in the Quality of a Fille de Chambre to the young Ladies.

Doct. A Fille de Chambre! ‘tis so, a she Pimp.

Har. Ah, Seignior— [Makes his little dapper Leg, instead of a Curt’sy.

Doct. How now, what, do you mock me?

Har. Oh Seignior! [Gets nearer the Door.

Mop. Stay, stay, Mistress; and what Service are you able to do the Seignior’s Daughters?

Har. Is this Seignior Doctor Baliardo, Madam?

Mop. Yes.

Har. Oh! he’s a very handsome Gentleman—indeed.

Doct. Ay, ay, what Service can you do, Mistress?

Har. Why, Seignior, I can tie a Crevat the best of any Person in Naples, and I can comb a Periwig—and I can—

Doct. Very proper Service for young Ladies; you, I believe, have been Fille de Chambre to some young Cavaliers?

Har. Most true, Seignior; why shou’d not the Cavaliers keep Filles de Chambre, as well as great Ladies Valets de Chambre?

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.

Doct. I am undone with Joy! ruin’d with Transport. [Aside. —Can it—can it, Sir,—be possible? [Stifling his Joy, which breaks out.

Char. Receive the Blessing, Sir, with Moderation.

Doct. I do, Sir, I do.

Char. This very Night, by their great Art, they find, He will descend, and shew himself in Glory. An Honour, Sir, no Mortal has receiv’d This sixty hundred years.

Doct. Hum—say you so, Sir; no Emperor ever descend this sixty hundred years? [Looks sad. —Was I deceiv’d last Night? [Aside.

Char. Oh! yes, Sir, often in Disguise, in several Shapes and Forms, which did of old occasion so many fabulous Tales of all the Shapes of Jupiter—but never in their proper Glory, Sir, as Emperors. This is an Honour only design’d to you.

Doct. And will his Grace—be here in Person, Sir? [Joyful.

Char. In Person—and with him, a Man of mighty Quality, Sir, ‘tis thought, the Prince of Thunderland—but that’s but whisper’d, Sir, in the Cabal, and that he loves your Niece.

Doct. Miraculous! how this agrees with all I’ve seen and heard —To Night, say you, Sir?

Char. So ‘tis conjectur’d, Sir,—some of the Cabalists are of opinion, that last Night there was some Sally from the Moon.

Doct. About what Hour, Sir?

Char. The Meridian of the Night, Sir, about the Hours of Twelve or One; but who descended, or in what Shape, is yet uncertain.

Doct. This I believe, Sir.

Char. Why, Sir?

Doct. May I communicate a Secret of that nature?

Char. To any of the Cabalists, but none else.

Doct. Then know—last Night, my Daughter and my Niece were entertain’d by those illustrious Heroes.

Char. Who, Sir, the Emperor, and Prince his Cousin?

Doct. Most certain, Sir. But whether they appear’d in solid Bodies, or Fantomical, is yet a Question; for at my unlucky approach, they all transform’d themselves into a Piece of Hangings.

Char. ‘Tis frequent, Sir, their Shapes are numerous; and ‘tis also in their power to transform all they touch, by virtue of a certain Stone they call the Ebula.

Doct. That wondrous Ebula, which Gonzales had?

Char. The same, by virtue of which, all Weight was taken from him, and then with ease the lofty Traveller flew from Parnassus Hill, and from Hymethus Mount, and high Gerania, and Acrocorinthus, thence to Taygetus, so to Olympus Top, from whence he had but one step to the Moon. Dizzy he grants he was.

Doct. No wonder, Sir, Oh happy great Gonzales!

Char. Your Virtue, Sir, will render you as happy—but I must haste— this Night prepare your Daughter and your Niece, and let your House be dress’d, perfum’d, and clean.

Doct. It shall be all perform’d, Sir.

Char. Be modest, Sir, and humble in your Elevation; for nothing shews the Wit so poor, as Wonder, nor Birth so mean, as Pride.

Doct. I humbly thank your Admonition, Sir, and shall, in all I can, struggle with human Frailty.

[Brings Char. to the Door bare. Exeunt.

Enter Scaramouch, peeping at the other Door.

Scar. So, so, all things go gloriously forward, but my own Amour, and there is no convincing this obstinate Woman, that ‘twas that Rogue Harlequin in Disguise, claim’d me; so that I cannot so much as come to deliver the young Ladies their Letters from their Lovers. I must get in with this damn’d Mistress of mine, or all our Plot will be spoil’d for want of Intelligence. —Hum, the Devil does not use to fail me at a dead Lift. I must deliver these Letters, and I must have this Wench—though but to be reveng’d on her for abusing me—Let me see—she is resolv’d for the Apothecary or the Farmer. Well, say no more, honest Scaramouch; thou shalt find a Friend at need of me—and if I do not fit you with a Spouse, say that a Woman has out-witted me.

[Exit.

The End of the Second Act.