Scar. ‘Twas sent your Reverence from the Virtuoso, or some of the Cabalists.
Doct. I must confess, the Workmanship is excellent;—but still I do insist I heard the Musick.
Scar. ‘Twas then the tuning of the Spheres, some Serenade, Sir, from the Inhabitants of the Moon.
Doct. Hum, from the Moon,—and that may be.
Scar. Lord, d’ye think I wou’d deceive your Reverence?
Doct. From the Moon, a Serenade,—I see no signs on’t here, indeed it must be so—I’ll think on’t more at leisure. [Aside. —Prithee what Story’s this? [Looks on the Hangings.
Scar. Why, Sir,—’Tis—
Doct. Hold up the Candles higher, and nearer.
[Peter and Scaramouch hold Candles near. He takes a Perspective, and looks through it; and coming nearer Harlequin, who is placed on a Tree in the Hangings, hits him on the Head with his Trunchion. He starts and looks about. Harlequin _sits still.
Scar. Sir—