_Bell_. That’s when he’s present only, and makes his Court to me; I can sigh to a Lover, but will never sigh after him:--but Oh, the Beaus, the Beaus, Cousin, that I saw at Church. _Ela_. Oh, you had great devotion to Heaven then! _Bell_. And so I had; for I did nothing but admire its Handy-work, but I cou’d not have pray’d heartily, if I had been dying; but a duce on’t, who shou’d come in and spoil all but my Lover _Charmante_, so dress’d, so gallant, that he drew together all the scatter’d fragments of my Heart, confin’d my wandering Thoughts, and fixt ‘em all on him: Oh, how he look’d, how he was dress’d! SINGS. _Chevalier à Cheveux blonds, Plus de Mouche, plus de Poudre, Plus de Ribons et Cannons_. --Oh, what a dear ravishing thing is the beginning of an Amour! _Ela_. Thou’rt still in Tune, when wilt thou be tame, _Bellemante_? _Bell_. When I am weary of loving, _Elaria_. _Ela_. To keep up your Humour, here’s a Letter from your _Charmante_. Bellemante _reads_. _Malicious Creature, when wilt thou cease to torment me, and either appear less charming, or more kind? I languish when from you, and am wounded when I see you, and yet I am eternally courting my Pain. _Cinthio_ and I, are contriving how we shall see you to Night. Let us not toil in vain; we ask but your consent; the Pleasure will be all ours, ‘tis therefore fit we suffer all the Fatigue. Grant this, and love me, if you will save the Life of_ Your _Charmante_. --Live then, _Charmante_! Live as long as Love can last! _Ela_. Well, Cousin, _Scaramouch_ tells me of a rare design’s a hatching, to relieve us from this Captivity; here are we mew’d up to be espous’d to two Moon-calfs for ought I know; for the Devil of any human thing is suffer’d to come near us without our Governante and Keeper, Mr. _Scaramouch_. _Bell_. Who, if he had no more Honesty and Conscience than my Uncle, wou’d let us pine for want of Lovers: but thanks be prais’d, the Generosity of our Cavaliers has open’d their obdurate Hearts with a Golden Key, that lets ‘em in at all Opportunities. Come, come, let’s in, and answer their Billet-Doux. [_Exeunt_. SCENE II. _A Garden_. _Enter_ Doctor, _with all manner of Mathematical Instruments hanging at his Girdle_; Scaramouch _bearing a Telescope twenty (or more) Foot long_. _Doct_. Set down the Telescope.--Let me see, what Hour is it? _Scar_. About six a Clock, Sir. _Doct_. Then ‘tis about the Hour that the great Monarch of the Upper World enters into his Closet; Mount, mount the Telescope. _Scar_. What to do, Sir? _Doct_. I understand, at certain moments critical, one may be snatch’d of such a mighty consequence, to let the Sight into the Secret Closet. _Scar_. How, Sir, peep into the King’s Closet! under favour, Sir, that will be something uncivil.