Doct. Excuse me, Seignior—
[Puts off his Hat again gravely.
Scar. For, Sir, conceive me how he grew rich! since he drank those Waters he never buys any Iron, but hammers it out of Stercus Proprius.
Enter Bellemante with a Billet.
Bell. Sir, ‘tis three a Clock, and Dinner will be cold.
[Goes behind Scaramouch, and gives him the Note and goes out.
Doct. I come, Sweet-heart; but this is wonderful.
Scar. Ay, Sir, and if at any time Nature be too infirm, and he prove Costive, he has no more to do, but apply a Load-stone ad Anum.
Doct. Is’t possible?
Scar. Most true, Sir, and that facilitates the Journey per Viscera. —But I detain you, Sir;—another time, Sir,—I will now only beg the Honour of a Word or two with the Governante, before I go.
Doct. Sir, she shall wait on you, and I shall be proud of the Honour of your Conversation. [Ex. Doctor.