_Scar._ Come, let's sit down. _The upper part of the Giant flies up, and the under sinks, and discovers a Woman in the Room._ Harlequin _and_ Scaramouche _start_. _Scar._ Ha! What's here, a Woman? _Har._ O happy Change! Madam, with your good Leave. [_Kisses._ _Scar._ Never too late in good Breeding. [_Kisses._] Rare Wench! And as Luscious as Pig-sauce. _Har._ Heav'n be prais'd for all. [_Woman sinks, a Flash of Lightning._ _Scar._ Your unseasonable Thankfulness has rob'd us of our Strumpet. _Har._ No matter, no matter; we shall meet her in the Cloisters after the Fair. Come let's fall too. [_They put their Caps before their Faces._ Ha! _Scar._ The Table runs away from us. _Har._ We'll bestow the Pains to follow it again; this I see is a running Banquet. [_They put their Caps on again, the Table removes._ _Scar._ I have found the Secret: We must not say Grace at the Devil's Feast. _Har._ Come then let's fall too, _San's_ Ceremony; Will you be Carver? _Scar._ Every one for himself, I say. _Har._ Ay, every one for himself, and God for us all. [_Table flies up into the Air._ _Scar._ A Plague o'your Proverb; it has a Word in't must not be named. _Har._ Ah, Mr. Doctor, do but intreat Mr. _Mephostopholis_ to let the Table down to us, or send us to that, and I'll be his Servant as long as I live. [_They are hoisted up to the Table._ _Scar. and Har._ Oh, oh, oh. _Scar._ Now have a care of another Proverb: We go without our Supper. _Har._ Nay, now I know the Devil's Humour, I'll hit him to a Hair: Pray, Mr. Doctor, cut up that Pasty. _Scar._ I can't get my Knife into it, 'tis over-bak'd. _Har._ Ay, 'tis often so: God sends Meat, and the Devil sends Cooks. [_Table flies down._ _Scar._ Thou Varlet, dost thou see what thy Proverb has done? _Har._ Now could I curse my Grand-mother, for she taught 'em me: Well, if sweet _Mephostopholis_ will be so kind as but to let us and the Table come together again, I'll promise never to say Grace, or speak Proverb more, as long as I live. [_They are let down to the Table._ _Scar._ Your Prayers are heard, now be careful; for if I lose my Supper by thy Negligence I'll cut thy Throat. _Har._ Do, and eat me when you have done. I am damnably hungry; I'll cut open this Pasty, while you open that Pot of wild Fowl. [Harlequin _takes off the Lid of the Pasty, and a Stag's Head peeps out; and out of the Pot of Fowl flies Birds_. Harlequin _and_ Scaramouche _start back, fall over their Chairs, and get up_. _Har._ Here's the Nest but the Birds are flown: Here's Wine though, and now I'll conjure for a Supper. I have a Sallad within of my own Gathering in the Fields to Day. _Scar._ Fetch it in; Bread, Wine, and a Salad may serve for a Collation. _Enter_ Harlequin _with a Tray of Sallad_. _Har._ Come, no Ceremony among Friends. _Bon. fro._ _Scar._ _Sallad mal adjuste_; here's neither Fat nor Lean. _Har._ O Mr. Doctor, neither Fat nor Lean in a Sallad. _Scar._ Neither Oyl, nor Vinegar.