_Scar_. Confess, Sir! What shall I confess?--I understand not your Cabalistical Language; but in mine, I confess that you wak’d me from the rarest Dream--Where methought the Emperor of the Moon World was in our House, dancing and revelling; and methoughts his Grace was fallen desperately in love with Mistriss _Elaria_, and that his Brother, the Prince, Sir, of _Thunderland_, was also in love with Mistriss _Bellemante_; and methoughts they descended to court ‘em in your Absence--And that at last you surpriz’d ‘em, and that they transform’d themselves into a Suit of Hangings to deceive you. But at last, methought you grew angry at something, and they all fled to Heaven again; and after a deal of Thunder and Lightning, I wak’d, Sir, and hearing human Voices here, came to see what the Matter was. [_This while the_ Doctor _lessens his signs of Rage by degrees, and at last stands in deep Contemplation_. _Doct_. May I credit this? _Scar_. Credit it! By all the Honour of your House, by my unseparable Veneration for the Mathematicks, ‘tis true, Sir. _Doct_. That famous _Rosycrusian_, who yesterday visited me, and told me the Emperor of the Moon was in love with a fair Mortal--This Dream is Inspiration in this Fellow--He must have wondrous Virtue in him, to be worthy of these divine Intelligences. [_Aside_.--But if that Mortal shou’d be _Elaria_! but no more, I dare not yet suppose it--perhaps the thing was real and no Dream, for oftentimes the grosser part is hurried away in Sleep by the force of Imagination, and is wonderfully agitated --This Fellow might be present in his Sleep,--of this we’ve frequent Instances--I’ll to my Daughter and my Niece, and hear what Knowledge they may have of this. _Mop_. Will you so? I’ll secure you, the Frolick shall go round. [_Aside, and Exit_. _Doct. Scaramouch_, if you have not deceiv’d me in this Matter, time will convince me farther; if it rest here, I shall believe you false. _Scar_. Good Sir, suspend your Judgment and your Anger till then. _Doct_. I’ll do’t, go back to bed. [_Ex_. Doct. _and_ Peter. _Scar_. No, Sir, ‘tis Morning now--and I’m up for all day.--This Madness is a pretty sort of pleasant Disease, when it tickles but in one Vein--Why, here’s my Master now, as great a Scholar, as grave and wise a Man, in all Argument and Discourse, as can be met with; yet name but the Moon, and he runs into ridicule, and grows as mad as the Wind. Well, Doctor, if thou canst be madder yet, We’ll find a Medicine that shall cure your Fit, --Better than all _Galenicus_. [_Goes out_. SCENE IV. _Draws off to_ Bellemante’s _Chamber, discovers_ Elaria, Bellemante _and_ Mopsophil _in Night-Gowns_. _Mop_. You have your Lessons, stand to it bravely, and the Town’s our own, Madam.