Volume Iii Part 118 (1/2)

_Doct. Scaramouch_, I have, for thy singular Wit and Honesty, always had a Tenderness for thee above that of a Master to a Servant.

_Scar_. I must confess it, Sir.

_Doct_. Thou hast Virtue and Merit that deserves much.

_Scar_. Oh Lord, Sir!

_Doct_. And I may make thee great;--all I require, is, that thou wilt double thy diligent Care of my Daughter and my Niece; for there are mighty things design'd for them, if we can keep 'em from the sight of Man.

_Scar_. The sight of Man, Sir!

_Doct_. Ay, and the very Thoughts of Man.

_Scar_. What Antidote is there to be given to a young Wench, against the Disease of Love and Longing?

_Doct_. Do you your Part, and because I know thee discreet and very secret, I will hereafter discover Wonders to thee. On pain of Life, look to the Girls; that's your Charge.

_Scar_. Doubt me not, Sir, and I hope your Reverence will reward my faithful Services with _Mopsophil_, your Daughter's Governante, who is rich, and has long had my Affection, Sir.

[Harlequin _peeping, cries Oh Traitor_!

_Doct_. Set not thy Heart on transitory Mortal, there's better things in store--besides, I have promis'd her to a Farmer for his Son.--Come in with me, and bring the Telescope.

[_Ex_. Doctor _and_ Scaramouch.

Harlequin _comes out on the Stage_.

_Har_. My Mistress _Mopsophil_ to marry a Farmer's Son! What, am I then forsaken, abandon'd by the false fair One? If I have Honour, I must die with Rage; Reproaching gently, and complaining madly. It is resolv'd, I'll hang my self--No, when did I ever hear of a Hero that hang'd him self?--No, 'tis the Death of Rogues. What if I drown my self?--No, Useless Dogs and Puppies are drown'd; a Pistol or a Caper on my own Sword wou'd look more n.o.bly, but that I have a natural Aversion to Pain.

Besides, it is as vulgar as Rats-bane, or the slicing of the Weasand.

No, I'll die a Death uncommon, and leave behind me an eternal Fame. I have somewhere read an Author, either antient or modern, of a Man that laugh'd to death.--I am very ticklish, and am resolv'd to die that Death.--Oh, _Mopsophil_, my cruel _Mopsophil_!

[_Pulls off his Hat, Sword and Shoes_.

And now, farewel the World, fond Love, and mortal Cares.

[_He falls to tickle himself, his Head, his Ears, his Armpits, Hands, Sides, and Soles of his Feet; making ridiculous Cries and Noises of Laughing several ways, with Antick Leaps and Skips, at last falls down as dead.

Enter_ Scaramouch.

_Scar. Harlequin_ was left in the Garden, I'll tell him the News of _Mopsophil_. [Going forward, tumbles over him.

Ha, what's here? _Harlequin_ dead!

[_Heaving him up, he flies into a Rage_.

_Har_. Who is't that thus wou'd rob me of my Honour?

_Scar_. Honour, why I thought thou'dst been dead.

_Ha_. Why, so I was, and the most agreeably dead.

_Scar_. I came to bemoan with thee the mutual loss of our Mistress.