—Come, Scaramouch, and get me ready for my Journey; and on your Life, let not a Door be open’d till my Return.
[Exeunt.
Enter Mopsophil. Har. peeps from under the Table.
Har. Ha! Mopsophil, and alone!
Mop. Well, ‘tis a delicious thing to be rich; what a world of Lovers it invites: I have one for every Hand, and the Favorite for my Lips.
Har. Ay, him wou’d I be glad to know. [Peeping.
Mop. But of all my Lovers, I am for the Farmer’s Son, because he keeps a Calash—and I’ll swear a Coach is the most agreeable thing about a Man.
Har. Ho, ho!
Mop. Ah, me,—What’s that?
[He answers in a shrill Voice.