_Char_. So ‘tis conjectur’d, Sir,--some of the Cabalists are of opinion, that last Night there was some Sally from the Moon. _Doct_. About what Hour, Sir? _Char_. The Meridian of the Night, Sir, about the Hours of Twelve or One; but who descended, or in what Shape, is yet uncertain. _Doct_. This I believe, Sir. _Char_. Why, Sir? _Doct_. May I communicate a Secret of that nature? _Char_. To any of the Cabalists, but none else. _Doct_. Then know--last Night, my Daughter and my Niece were entertain’d by those illustrious Heroes. _Char_. Who, Sir, the Emperor, and Prince his Cousin? _Doct_. Most certain, Sir. But whether they appear’d in solid Bodies, or Fantomical, is yet a Question; for at my unlucky approach, they all transform’d themselves into a Piece of Hangings. _Char_. ‘Tis frequent, Sir, their Shapes are numerous; and ‘tis also in their power to transform all they touch, by virtue of a certain Stone they call the _Ebula_. _Doct_. That wondrous _Ebula_, which _Gonzales_ had? _Char_. The same, by virtue of which, all Weight was taken from him, and then with ease the lofty Traveller flew from _Parnassus Hill_, and from _Hymethus Mount_, and high _Gerania_, and _Acrocorinthus_, thence to _Taygetus_, so to _Olympus_ Top, from whence he had but one step to the Moon. Dizzy he grants he was. _Doct_. No wonder, Sir, Oh happy great _Gonzales_! _Char_. Your Virtue, Sir, will render you as happy--but I must haste-- this Night prepare your Daughter and your Niece, and let your House be dress’d, perfum’d, and clean. _Doct_. It shall be all perform’d, Sir. _Char_. Be modest, Sir, and humble in your Elevation; for nothing shews the Wit so poor, as Wonder, nor Birth so mean, as Pride. _Doct_. I humbly thank your Admonition, Sir, and shall, in all I can, struggle with human Frailty. [_Brings_ Char. _to the Door bare. Exeunt_. _Enter_ Scaramouch, _peeping at the other Door_. _Scar_. So, so, all things go gloriously forward, but my own Amour, and there is no convincing this obstinate Woman, that ‘twas that Rogue _Harlequin_ in Disguise, claim’d me; so that I cannot so much as come to deliver the young Ladies their Letters from their Lovers. I must get in with this damn’d Mistress of mine, or all our Plot will be spoil’d for want of Intelligence. --Hum, the Devil does not use to fail me at a dead Lift. I must deliver these Letters, and I must have this Wench--though but to be reveng’d on her for abusing me--Let me see--she is resolv’d for the Apothecary or the Farmer. Well, say no more, honest _Scaramouch_; thou shalt find a Friend at need of me--and if I do not fit you with a Spouse, say that a Woman has out-witted me. [_Exit_. _The End of the Second Act_. ACT III. SCENE I. _The Street, with the Town-Gate, where an Officer stands with a Staff like a_ London _Constable_.