_Doct_. Sirrah, must I stand waiting your Leisure, while you are roguing here? I will reward ye. [_Beats him_. _Scar_. Ay, and I shall deserve it richly, Sir, when you know all. _Doct_. I guess all, Sirrah, and I heard all, and you shall be rewarded for all. Where have you hid the Fiddles, you Rogue? _Scar_. Fiddles, Sir! _Doct_. Ay, Fiddles, Knave. _Scar_. Fiddles, Sir!--Where? _Doct_. Here, here I heard ‘em, thou false Steward of thy Master’s Treasure. _Scar_. Fiddles, Sir! Sure ‘twas Wind got into your Head, and whistled in your Ears, riding so late, Sir. _Doct_. Ay, thou false Varlet, there’s another debt I owe thee, for bringing me so damnable a Lye: my Brother’s well--I met his Valet but a League from Town, and found thy Roguery out. [_Beats him. He cries_. _Scar_. Is this the Reward I have for being so diligent since you went? _Doct_. In what, thou Villain? in what? [_The Curtain is drawn up, and discovers the Hangings where all of them stand_. _Scar_. Why, look you, Sir, I have, to surprize you with Pleasure, against you came home, been putting up this Piece of Tapestry, the best in Italy, for the Rareness of the Figures, Sir. _Doct_. Ha! hum--It is indeed a Stately Piece of Work; how came I by ‘em? _Scar_. ‘Twas sent your Reverence from the _Virtuoso_, or some of the Cabalists. _Doct_. I must confess, the Workmanship is excellent;--but still I do insist I heard the Musick. _Scar_. ‘Twas then the tuning of the Spheres, some Serenade, Sir, from the Inhabitants of the Moon. _Doct_. Hum, from the Moon,--and that may be. _Scar_. Lord, d’ye think I wou’d deceive your Reverence? _Doct_. From the Moon, a Serenade,--I see no signs on’t here, indeed it must be so--I’ll think on’t more at leisure. [_Aside_. --Prithee what Story’s this? [_Looks on the Hangings_. _Scar_. Why, Sir,--’Tis-- _Doct_. Hold up the Candles higher, and nearer. [Peter _and_ Scaramouch _hold Candles near. He takes a Perspective, and looks through it; and coming nearer_ Harlequin, _who is placed on a Tree in the Hangings, hits him on the Head with his Trunchion. He starts and looks about_. Harlequin _sits still. _Scar_. Sir-- _Doct_. What was that struck me? _Scar_. Struck you, Sir! Imagination. _Doct_. Can my Imagination feel, Sirrah? _Scar_. Oh, the most tenderly of any part about one, Sir! _Doct_. Hum--that may be. _Scar_. Are you a great Philosopher, and know not that, Sir? _Doct_. This Fellow has a glimpse of Profundity. [_Aside. Looks again_. --I like the Figures well. _Scar_. You will, when you see ‘em by Day-light, Sir. [Har. _hits him again. The_ Doctor _sees him_. _Doct_. Ha,--Is that Imagination too?--Betray’d, betray’d, undone! run for my Pistols, call up my Servants, _Peter_, a Plot upon my Daughter and my Niece!