_Scar_. Ha, to _Elaria_--and _Bellemante_! [_Reads the Outside, pops ‘em into his Bosom_. These are from their Lovers.--Ha, a Note to _Mopsophil_.--Oh, Rogue! have I found you? _Har_. If you have, ‘tis but Trick for your Trick, Seignior _Scaramouch_, and you may spare the Pumping. _Scar_. For once, Sirrah, I’ll bring you off, and deliver your Letters. --Sir, do you not know who this is? Why, ‘tis a Rival of mine, who put on this Disguise to cheat me of Mistress _Mopsophil_.--See, here’s a Billet to her. _Doct_. What is he? _Scar_. A Mungrel Dancing-Master; therefore, Sir, since all the Injury’s mine, I’ll pardon him for a Dance, and let the Agility of his Heels save his Bones, with your Permission, Sir. _Doct_. With all my Heart, and am glad he comes off so comically. [Harlequin _dances_. [_A knocking at the Gate_. Scar. _goes and returns_. _Scar_. Sir, Sir, here’s the rare Philosopher who was here yesterday. _Doct_. Give him Entrance, and all depart. _Enter_ Charmante. _Char_. Blest be those Stars that first conducted me to so much Worth and Virtue; you are their Darling, Sir, for whom they wear their brightest Lustre. Your Fortune is establish’d, you are made, Sir. _Doct_. Let me contain my Joy. [_Keeping in an impatient Joy_. --May I be worthy, Sir, to apprehend you? _Char_. After long searching, watching, fasting, praying, and using all the virtuous means in Nature, whereby we solely do attain the highest Knowledge in Philosophy; it was resolv’d, by strong Intelligence--you were the happy Sire of that bright Nymph, that had infascinated, charm’d, and conquer’d the mighty Emperor _Iredonozor_, the Monarch of the Moon. _Doct_. I am undone with Joy! ruin’d with Transport. [_Aside_. --Can it--can it, Sir,--be possible? [_Stifling his Joy, which breaks out_. _Char_. Receive the Blessing, Sir, with Moderation. _Doct_. I do, Sir, I do. _Char_. This very Night, by their great Art, they find, He will descend, and shew himself in Glory. An Honour, Sir, no Mortal has receiv’d This sixty hundred years. _Doct_. Hum--say you so, Sir; no Emperor ever descend this sixty hundred years? [_Looks sad_. --Was I deceiv’d last Night? [_Aside_. _Char_. Oh! yes, Sir, often in Disguise, in several Shapes and Forms, which did of old occasion so many fabulous Tales of all the Shapes of _Jupiter_--but never in their proper Glory, Sir, as Emperors. This is an Honour only design’d to you. _Doct_. And will his Grace--be here in Person, Sir? [_Joyful_. _Char_. In Person--and with him, a Man of mighty Quality, Sir, ‘tis thought, the Prince of _Thunderland_--but that’s but whisper’d, Sir, in the Cabal, and that he loves your Niece. _Doct_. Miraculous! how this agrees with all I’ve seen and heard --To Night, say you, Sir?