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.

    Enter Harlequin riding in a Calash, comes through the Gate
    towards the Stage, dress’d like a Gentleman sitting in it.  The
    Officer lays hold of his Horse.

Off.  Hold, hold, Sir, you I suppose know the Customs that are due to this City of Naples, from all Persons that pass the Gates in Coach, Chariot, Calash, or Siege Volant.

Har.  I am not ignorant of the Custom, Sir, but what’s that to me.

Off.  Not to you, Sir! why, what Privilege have you above the rest?

Har.  Privilege, for what, Sir?

Off.  Why, for passing, Sir, with any of the before-named Carriages.

Har.  Art mad?—­Dost not see I am a plain Baker, and this my Cart, that comes to carry Bread for the Vice-Roy’s, and the City’s Use?—­ha.

Off.  Are you mad, Sir, to think I cannot see a Gentleman Farmer and a Calash, from a Baker and a Cart.

Har.  Drunk by this Day—­and so early too?  Oh, you’re a special Officer? unhand my Horse, Sirrah, or you shall pay for all the Damage you do me.

Off.  Hey Day! here’s a fine Cheat upon the Vice-Roy:  Sir, pay me, or
I’ll seize your Horse.
                         [Har. strikes him.  They scuffle a little. 
—­Nay, and you be so brisk, I’ll call the Clerk from his Office.
[Calls.]—­Mr. Clerk, Mr. Clerk.