_Scar_. And then the third Region, if the Faeces be volatile, the Birth will soon come _in Balneo_. This I observed also in the Laboratory of that ingenious Chymist _Lysidono_, and with much Pleasure animadverted that Mineral of the same Zenith and Nadir, of that now so famous Water in _England_, near that famous Metropolis, call’d _Islington_. _Doct_. Seignior-- _Scar_. For, Sir, upon the Infusion, the Crows Head immediately procures the Seal of _Hermes_; and had not _Lac Virginis_ been too soon suck’d up, I believe we might have seen the Consummation of _Amalgama_. [Bellemante _having got her Letters, goes off. She makes Signs to him to stay a little. He nods_. _Doct_. Most likely, Sir. _Scar_. But, Sir, this _Garamanteen_ relates the strangest Operation of a Mineral in the Lunar World, that ever I heard of. _Doct_. As how, I pray, Sir? _Scar_. Why, Sir, a Water impregnated to a Circulation with _prima Materia_; upon my Honour, Sir, the strongest I ever drank of. _Doct_. How, Sir! did you drink of it? _Scar_. I only speak the words of _Garamanteen_, Sir. --Pox on him, I shall be trapt. [_Aside_. _Doct_. Cry Mercy, Sir.-- [_Bows_. _Scar_. The Lunary Physicians, Sir, call it _Urinam Vulcani_, it calybeates every ones Excrements more or less according to the Gradus of the natural Calor.--To my Knowledge, Sir, a Smith of a very fiery Constitution is grown very opulent by drinking these Waters. _Doct_. How, Sir, grown rich by drinking the Waters, and to your Knowledge? _Scar_. The Devil’s in my Tongue. To my Knowledge, Sir; for what a Man of Honour relates, I may safely affirm. _Doct_. Excuse me, Seignior-- [_Puts off his Hat again gravely_. _Scar_. For, Sir, conceive me how he grew rich! since he drank those Waters he never buys any Iron, but hammers it out of _Stercus Proprius_. _Enter_ Bellemante _with a Billet_. _Bell_. Sir, ‘tis three a Clock, and Dinner will be cold. [_Goes behind_ Scaramouch, _and gives him the Note and goes out_. _Doct_. I come, Sweet-heart; but this is wonderful. _Scar_. Ay, Sir, and if at any time Nature be too infirm, and he prove Costive, he has no more to do, but apply a Load-stone _ad Anum_. _Doct_. Is’t possible? _Scar_. Most true, Sir, and that facilitates the Journey _per Viscera_. --But I detain you, Sir;--another time, Sir,--I will now only beg the Honour of a Word or two with the Governante, before I go. _Doct_. Sir, she shall wait on you, and I shall be proud of the Honour of your Conversation. [_Ex_. Doctor. _Enter to him_ Harlequin, _dress’d like a Farmer, as before_. _Har_. Hum--What have we here, a Taylor or a Tumbler? _Scar_. Ha--Who’s this?--Hum--What if it shou’d be the Farmer that the Doctor has promis’d _Mopsophil_ to? My Heart misgives me. [_They look at each other a while_. Who wou’d you speak with, Friend?