Shift. Well, the Mountebank’s come, Lodgings are taken at his House, and the Guardian prepar’d to receive you on the aforesaid Terms, and some fifty Pistoles to the Mountebank to stand your Friend, and the Business is done. Feth. Which shall be perform’d accordingly, I have it ready about me. Blunt. And here’s mine, put ’em together, and let’s be speedy, lest some should bribe higher, and put in before us. [_Feth._ takes the Money, and looks pitiful on’t. Feth. Tis a plaguy round Sum, _Ned_, pray God it turn to Account. Blunt. Account, ’dsheartlikins, ’tis not in the Power of mortal Man to cozen ’me. Shift. Oh fie, Sir, cozen you, Sir!—well, you’ll stay here and see the Mountebank, he’s coming forth. [A Hollowing. Enter from the Front a Bank, a Pageant, which they fix on the Stage at one side, a little Pavilion 142 on’t, Musick playing, and Operators round below, or Antickers. [Musick plays, and an Antick Dance. Enter _Willmore_ like a Mountebank, with a Dagger in one Hand, and a Viol in the other, _Harlequin_ and _Scaramouche_; _Carlo_ with other _Spaniards_ below, and Rabble; _Ariadne_ and _Lucia_ above in the Balcony, others on the other side, _Fetherfool_ and _Blunt_ below. Will. (_bowing_) Behold this little Viol, which contains in its narrow Bounds what the whole Universe cannot purchase, if sold to its true Value; this admirable, this miraculous Elixir, drawn from the Hearts of Mandrakes, Phenix Livers, and Tongues of Maremaids, and distill’d by contracted Sun-Beams, has besides the unknown Virtue of curing all Distempers both of Mind and Body, that divine one of animating the Heart of Man to that Degree, that however remiss, cold and cowardly by Nature, he shall become vigorous and brave. Oh stupid and insensible Man, when Honour and secure Renown invites you, to treat it with Neglect, even when you need but passive Valour, to become the Heroes of the Age; receive a thousand Wounds, each of which wou’d let out fleeting Life: Here’s that can snatch the parting Soul in its full Career, and bring it back to its native Mansion; baffles grim Death, and disappoints even Fate. Feth. Oh Pox, an a Man were sure of that now— Will. Behold, here’s Demonstration— [Harlequin stabs himself, and falls as dead. Feth. Hold, hold, why, what the Devil is the Fellow mad? Blunt. Why, do’st think he has hurt himself? Feth. Hurt himself! why, he’s murder’d, Man; ’tis flat _Felo de se_, in any ground in _England_, if I understand Law, and I have been a Justice o’th’ Peace. Will. See, Gentlemen, he’s dead— 143 Feth. Look ye there now, I’ll be gone lest I be taken as an Accessary. [Going out.