_Scar_. Why, what do I speak like? what do I speak like? _Har_. What do you speak like!--why you speak like a Wheel-Barrow. _Scar_. How! _Har_. And how. [_They come up close together at half Sword Parry; stare on each other for a while, then put up and bow to each other civilly_. _Mop_. That’s well, Gentlemen, let’s have all Peace, while I survey you both, and see which likes me best. [_She goes between ‘em, and surveys ‘em both, they making ridiculous bows on both sides, and Grimaces the while_. --Ha, now on my Conscience, my two foolish Lovers, _Harlequin_ and _Scaramouch_; how are my Hopes defeated?--but, faith, I’ll fit you both. [_She views ‘em both_. _Scar_. So she’s considering still, I shall be the happy Dog. [_Aside_. _Har_. She’s taking aim, she cannot chuse but like me best. [_Aside_. _Scar_. Well, Madam, how does my Person propagate? [_Bowing and smiling_. _Mop_. Faith, Seignior, now I look better on you, I do not like your Phisnomy so well as your Intellects; you discovering some circumstantial Symptoms that ever denote a villanous Inconstancy. _Scar_. Ah, are you pleas’d, Madam. _Mop_. You are mistaken, Seignior. I am displeas’d at your Grey-Eyes, and black Eye-brows, and Beard; I never knew a Man with those Signs, true to his Mistress or his Friend. And I wou’d sooner wed that Scoundrel _Scaramouch_, that very civil Pimp, that mere pair of chymical Bellows that blow the Doctor’s projecting Fires, that Deputy-urinal Shaker, that very Guzman of _Salamanca_. than a Fellow of your infallible _Signum Mallis_. _Har_. Ha, ha, ha, you have your Answer, Seignior Friskin--and may shut up your Shop and be gone.--Ha, ha, ha. _Scar_. Hum, sure the Jade knows me. [_Aside_. _Mop_. And as for you, Seignior-- _Har_. Ha, Madam. [_Bowing and smiling_. _Mop_. Those Lanthorn Jaws of yours, with that most villanous Sneer and Grin, and a certain fierce Air of your Eyes, looks altogether most fanatically--which with your notorious Whey Beard, are certain Signs of Knavery and Cowardice; therefore I’ad rather wed that Spider _Harlequin_, that Sceleton Buffoon, that Ape of Man, that Jack of Lent, that very Top, that’s of no use, but when ‘tis whip’d and lash’d, that piteous Property I’ad rather wed than thee. _Har_. A very fair Declaration. _Mop_. You understand me--and so adieu, sweet Glisterpipe, and Seignior Dirty-Boots, Ha, ha, ha. [_Runs out_. [_They stand looking simply on each other, without speaking a while_. _Scar_. That I shou’d not know that Rogue _Harlequin_. [_Aside_. _Har_. That I shou’d take this Fool for a Physician. [_Aside_. --How long have you commenc’d Apothecary, Seignior? _Scar_. Ever since you turn’d Farmer.--Are not you a damn’d Rogue to put these Tricks upon me, and most dishonourably break all Articles between us?