Har. The Devil’s in him for hard Questions. —I am a Neapolitan, Sir?
Doct. Sir, I Honour you; good luck, my Countryman! How got you to the Region of the Moon, Sir?
Har. A plaguy inquisitive old Fool! —Why, Sir, —Pox on’t, what shall I say? —I being—one day in a musing Melancholy, walking by the Sea-side— there arose, Sir, a great Mist, by the Sun’s exhaling of the Vapours of the Earth, Sir.
Doct. Right, Sir.
Har. In this Fog, or Mist, Sir, I was exhal’d.
Doct. The Exhalations of the Sun draw you to the Moon, Sir?
Har. I am condemn’d to the Blanket again. —I say, Sir, I was exhal’d up, but in my way—being too heavy, was drop’d into the Sea.
Doct. How, Sir, into the Sea?
Har. The Sea, Sir, where the Emperor’s Fisherman casting his Nets, drew me up, and took me for a strange and monstrous Fish, Sir,—and as such, presented me to his Mightiness,—who going to have me Spitchcock’d for his own eating—
Doct. How, Sir, eating?