Tick. ‘Tis marvellous dark, and I have lost my Lanthorn in the fray! [Groping.] —hah—whereabouts am I—hum—what have we here!—ah, help, help, help! [Stumbles at the Well, gets hold of the Rope, and slides down in the Bucket.] I shall be drown’d, Fire, Fire, Fire! for I have Water enough! Oh, for some House,—some Street; nay, wou’d Rome it-self were a second time in flames, that my Deliverance might be wrought by the necessity for Water: but no human Help is nigh—oh!
Enter Sir Sig. as before.
Sir Sig. Did ever any Knight-Adventurer run through so many Disasters in one night! my worshipful Carcase has been cudgel’d most plentifully, first bang’d for a Coward, which by the way was none of my Fault, I cannot help Nature: then claw’d away for a Diavillo, there I was the Fool; but who can help that too? frighted with Gal’s coming into an Ague; then chimney’d into a Fever, where I had a fine Regale of Soot, a Perfume which nothing but my Cackamarda Orangate cou’d exceell; and which I find by [snuffs] my smelling has defac’d Nature’s Image, and a second time made me be suspected for a Devil.—let me see—[Opens his Lanthorn, and looks on his Hands.] ‘tis so—I am in a cleanly Pickle: if my Face be of the same Hue, I am fit to scare away old Beelzebub himself, i’faith: [Wipes his Face.]—ay, ‘tis so, like to like, quoth the Devil to the Collier: well I’ll home, scrub my self clean if possible, get me to Bed, devise a handsom Lye to excuse my long stay to my Governour, and all’s well, and the Man has his Mare again. [Shuts his Lanthorn and gropes away, runs against the Well.—Quequesto (feels gently.)] Make me thankful ‘tis substantial Wood, by your leave— [Opens his Lanthorn.] How! a Well! sent by Providence that I may wash my self, lest People smoke me by the scent, and beat me a-new for stinking: [Sets down his Lanthorn, pulls of his Masking-Coat, and goes to draw Water.] ‘Tis a damnable heavy Bucket! now do I fancy I shall look, when I am washing my self, like the sign of the Labour-in-vain.
Tick. So, my cry is gone forth, and I am delivered by Miracle from this Dungeon of Death and Darkness, this cold Element of Destruction—
Sir Sig. Hah—sure I heard a dismal hollow Voice.
[Tick. appears in the Bucket above the Well.
Tick. What, art thou come in Charity?
Sir Sig. Ah, le Diavilo, le Diavilo, le Diavilo. [Lets go the Bucket, and is running frighted away.
Enter Fillamour and Page, he returns.
—How, a Man! was ever wretched Wight so miserable, the Devil at one hand, and a Roman Night-walker at the other; which danger shall I chuse? [Gets to the door of the House.