Char. Receive the Blessing, Sir, with Moderation.
Doct. I do, Sir, I do.
Char. This very Night, by their great Art, they find,
He will descend, and shew himself in Glory.
An Honour, Sir, no Mortal has receiv’d
This sixty hundred years.
Doct. Hum—say you so, Sir; no Emperor ever descend this sixty hundred years? [Looks sad. —Was I deceiv’d last Night? [Aside.
Char. Oh! yes, Sir, often in Disguise, in several Shapes and Forms, which did of old occasion so many fabulous Tales of all the Shapes of Jupiter—but never in their proper Glory, Sir, as Emperors. This is an Honour only design’d to you.
Doct. And will his Grace—be here in Person, Sir? [Joyful.
Char. In Person—and with him, a Man of mighty Quality, Sir, ‘tis thought, the Prince of Thunderland—but that’s but whisper’d, Sir, in the Cabal, and that he loves your Niece.
Doct. Miraculous! how this agrees with all I’ve seen and heard —To Night, say you, Sir?
Char. So ‘tis conjectur’d, Sir,—some of the Cabalists are of opinion, that last Night there was some Sally from the Moon.
Doct. About what Hour, Sir?