Har. Come then let's fall too, San's Ceremony; Will you be Carver?
Scar. Every one for himself, I say.
Har. Ay, every one for himself, and God for us all.
[Table flies up into the Air.
Scar. A Plague o'your Proverb; it has a Word in't must not be named.
Har. Ah, Mr. Doctor, do but intreat Mr. Mephostopholis to let the Table down to us, or send us to that, and I'll be his Servant as long as I live. [They are hoisted up to the Table.
Scar. and Har. Oh, oh, oh.
Scar. Now have a care of another Proverb: We go without our Supper.
Har. Nay, now I know the Devil's Humour, I'll hit him to a Hair: Pray, Mr. Doctor, cut up that Pasty.
Scar. I can't get my Knife into it, 'tis over-bak'd.