_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?