Har. Ay, 'tis often so: God sends Meat, and the Devil sends Cooks. [Table flies down.
Scar. Thou Varlet, dost thou see what thy Proverb has done?
Har. Now could I curse my Grand-mother, for she taught 'em me: Well, if sweet Mephostopholis will be so kind as but to let us and the Table come together again, I'll promise never to say Grace, or speak Proverb more, as long as I live.
[They are let down to the Table.
Scar. Your Prayers are heard, now be careful; for if I lose my Supper by thy Negligence I'll cut thy Throat.
Har. Do, and eat me when you have done. I am damnably hungry; I'll cut open this Pasty, while you open that Pot of wild Fowl.
[Harlequin takes off the Lid of the Pasty, and a Stag's Head peeps out; and out of the Pot of Fowl flies Birds. Harlequin and Scaramouche start back, fall over their Chairs, and get up.
Har. Here's the Nest but the Birds are flown: Here's Wine though, and now I'll conjure for a Supper. I have a Sallad within of my own Gathering in the Fields to Day.
Scar. Fetch it in; Bread, Wine, and a Salad may serve for a Collation.
Enter Harlequin with a Tray of Sallad.