_Scar_. Yes, yes. [_In heat_.
_Ela_. And hast thou delivered my Letter to his Nephew, Don _Cinthio_?
_Scar_. Yes, yes, what should I deliver else?
_Ela_. Well--and how does he?
_Scar_. Lord, how should he do? Why, what a laborious thing it is to be a Pimp? [_Fanning himself with his Cap_.
_Ela_. Why, well he shou'd do.
_Scar_. So he is, as well as a Night-adventuring Lover can be,--he has got but one Wound, Madam.
_Ela_. How! wounded say you? Oh Heavens! 'tis not mortal.
_Scar_. Why, I have no great skill; but they say it may be dangerous.
_Ela_. I die with Fear, where is he wounded?
_Scar_. Why, Madam, he is run--quite through the Heart,--but the Man may live, if I please.
_Ela_. Thou please! torment me not with Riddles.
_Scar_. Why, Madam, there is a certain cordial Balsam, call'd a Fair Lady; which outwardly applied to his Bosom, will prove a better cure than all your Weapon or sympathetick Powder, meaning your Ladyship.
_Ela_. Is _Cinthio_ then not wounded?
_Scar_. No otherwise than by your fair Eyes, Madam; he got away unseen and unknown.
_Ela_. Dost know how precious time is, and dost thou fool it away thus?
What said he to my Letter?
_Scar_. What should he say?
_Ela_. Why, a hundred dear soft things of Love, kiss it as often, and bless me for my Goodness.
_Scar_. Why, so he did.
_Ela_. Ask thee a thousand Questions of my Health after my last night's fright.
_Scar_. So he did.
_Ela_. Expressing all the kind concern Love cou'd inspire, for the Punishment my Father has inflicted on me, for entertaining him at my Window last night.
_Scar_. All this he did.
_Ela_. And for my being confin'd a Prisoner to my Apartment, without the hope or almost possibility of seeing him any more.
_Scar_. There I think you are a little mistaken; for besides the Plot that I have laid to bring you together all this Night,--there are such Stratagems a brewing, not only to bring you together, but with your Father's consent too; such a Plot, Madam--
_Ela_. Ay, that would be worthy of thy Brain; prithee what?--
_Scar_. Such a Device--
_Ela_. I'm impatient.
_Scar_. Such a Conundrum,--Well, if there be wise Men and Conjurers in the World, they are intriguing Lovers.
_Ela_. Out with it.
_Scar_. You must know, Madam, your Father (my Master, the Doctor) is a little whimsical, romantick, or Don-Quicksottish, or so.
_Ela_. Or rather mad.
_Scar_. That were uncivil to be supposed by me; but lunatic we may call him, without breaking the Decorum of good Manners; for he is always travelling to the Moon.
_Ela_. And so religiously believes there is a World there, that he Discourses as gravely of the People, their Government, Institutions, Laws, Manners, Religion, and Constitution, as if he had been bred a _Machiavel_ there.
_Scar_. How came he thus infected first?
_Ela_. With reading foolish Books, _Lucian's Dialogue of the Lofty Traveller_, who flew up to the Moon, and thence to Heaven; an heroick Business, call'd _The Man in the Moon_, if you'll believe a _Spaniard_, who was carried thither, upon an Engine drawn by wild Geese; with another Philosophical Piece, _A Discourse of the World in the Moon_; with a thousand other ridiculous Volumes, too hard to name.
_Scar_. Ay, this reading of Books is a pernicious thing. I was like to have run mad once, reading Sir _John Mandevil_;--but to the business,--I went, as you know, to Don _Cinthio's_ Lodgings, where I found him with his dear Friend _Charmante_, laying their Heads together for a Farce.
_Ela_. Farce!
_Scar_. Ay, a Farce, which shall be call'd,--_The World in the Moon_: Wherein your Father shall be so impos'd on, as shall bring matters most magnificently about.
_Ela_. I cannot conceive thee, but the Design must be good, since _Cinthio_ and _Charmante_ own it.
_Scar_. In order to this, _Charmante_ is dressing himself like one of the Caballists of the _Rosycrusian_ Order, and is coming to prepare my credulous Master for the greater Imposition. I have his Trinkets here to play upon him, which shall be ready.
_Ela_. But the Farce, where is it to be acted?
_Scar_. Here, here, in this very House; I am to order the Decorations, adorn a Stage, and place Scenes proper.
_Ela_. How can this be done without my Father's Knowledge?
_Scar_. You know the old Apartment next the great Orchard, and the Worm-eaten Gallery that opens to the River; which place for several Years no body has frequented; there all things shall be acted proper for our purpose.
_Enter_ Mopsophil _running_.
_Mop_. Run, run, _Scaramouch_, my Master's conjuring for you like mad below, he calls up all his little Devils with horrid Names, his Microscope, his Horoscope, his Telescope, and all his Scopes.
_Scar_. Here, here,--I had almost forgot the Letters; here's one for you, and one for Mrs. _Bellemante_.
[_Runs out_.
_Enter_ Bellemante _with a Book_.