Scar. What Antidote is there to be given to a young Wench, against the Disease of Love and Longing?
Doct. Do you your Part, and because I know thee discreet and very secret, I will hereafter discover Wonders to thee. On pain of Life, look to the Girls; that’s your Charge.
Scar. Doubt me not, Sir, and I hope your Reverence will reward my faithful Services with Mopsophil, your Daughter’s Governante, who is rich, and has long had my Affection, Sir.
[Harlequin peeping, cries Oh Traitor!
Doct. Set not thy Heart on transitory Mortal, there’s better things in store—besides, I have promis’d her to a Farmer for his Son.—Come in with me, and bring the Telescope.
[Ex. Doctor and Scaramouch.
Harlequin comes out on the Stage.
Har. My Mistress Mopsophil to marry a Farmer’s Son! What, am I then forsaken, abandon’d by the false fair One? If I have Honour, I must die with Rage; Reproaching gently, and complaining madly. It is resolv’d, I’ll hang my self—No, when did I ever hear of a Hero that hang’d him self?—No, ‘tis the Death of Rogues. What if I drown my self?—No, Useless Dogs and Puppies are drown’d; a Pistol or a Caper on my own Sword wou’d look more nobly, but that I have a natural Aversion to Pain. Besides, it is as vulgar as Rats-bane, or the slicing of the Weasand. No, I’ll die a Death uncommon, and leave behind me an eternal Fame. I have somewhere read an Author, either antient or modern, of a Man that laugh’d to death.—I am very ticklish, and am resolv’d to die that Death.—Oh, Mopsophil, my cruel Mopsophil! [Pulls off his Hat, Sword and Shoes. And now, farewel the World, fond Love, and mortal Cares.
[_He falls to tickle himself, his Head, his Ears, his Armpits, Hands, Sides, and Soles of his Feet; making ridiculous Cries and Noises of Laughing several ways, with Antick Leaps and Skips, at last falls down as dead.
Enter_ Scaramouch.