Char. Refine your Thoughts, Sir, by a Moment’s Prayer, and try again.
[He prays. Char. claps the Glass with the Emperor on it, he looks in and sees it.
Doct. It is too much, too much for mortal Eyes! I see a Monarch seated on a Throne—but seems most sad and pensive.
Char. Forbear then, Sir; for now his Love-Fit’s on, and then he wou’d be private.
Doct. His Love-Fit, Sir!
Char. Ay, Sir, the Emperor’s in love with some fair Mortal.
Doct. And can he not command her?
Char. Yes, but her Quality being too mean, he struggles, though a King, ‘twixt Love and Honour.
Doct. It were too much to know the Mortal, Sir?
Char. ‘Tis yet unknown, Sir, to the Caballists, who now are using all their Arts to find her, and serve his Majesty; but now my great Affair deprives me of you: To morrow, Sir, I’ll wait on you again; and now I’ve try’d your Virtue, tell you Wonders.