Volume Iii Part 127 (1/2)

_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 l.u.s.tre. 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?