Act 3
Scene I. A School-Room.
The Scene draws, and discovers Harlequin amongst a company of little children at School, all gabling together in a Schooltone; the Mistress sitting in the middle in a great Chair, with a great Rod and a Ferrula sticking upright at either corner of the back o'the Chair. Harl. snatches a piece of Bread and Butter out of one of the childrens hands; the child falls a crying.
3d Sch.
Eunh! Eunh! Eunh!
Mistr.
How now? who's that makes a noise: there?
1st Sch.
The new Scholar.
2d Sch.
The new Scholar.
Mist.
Child, come hither; what makes you cry, tell me?
3d Sch.
H'has got my Bread and Butter.
Mist.
Cudslidikins, he; which is that he?
3d Sch.
He there.
Mist.
My new Scholar! does he play such tricks already?
Harl.
I was very hungry, Signiora Philosopher.
Mist.
I shall teach you better manners.
Harl.
I ask'd for a piece, and the cross Chit wou'd give me none.
Mist.
And therefore you were so rude to snatch it?
Harl.
I had not eat my Breakfast to day.
Mist.
Look you do so no more.
Harl.
Mayn't a Philosopher eat Bread and Butter?
Mist.
Come, which of all you Dunces that stay behind here, can say your Lessons, that you may go home after your fellows?
All Sch.
I, I, I, I, I, I.
Mist.
Look to't, they that tell me they can, if they can’t, shall be whipt; therefore sit you down, and mind your Books till I come agen, that you may be perfect.
Harlequin goes and sits in the Mistresses Chair, takes the Rod and plays with it; pulls out an Apple, and eats and sings with his mouth full.
1st, 2d, 3d. Sch.
O brave! O brave!
1st Sch.
I'l tell my Mistress.
2d Sch.
I'l tell my Mistress.
1st, 2d, 3d Sch.
Ha! ha! ha!
Harl.
You, little boy, come hither, and say your Lesson.
1st Sch.
Pray, who are you?
Harl.
I'm a Philosopher.
1st Sch.
Ha! ha! ha! A Philosopher! Pray, Mr. Philosopher, come out of my Mistresses Chair.
They throw Books at him, and pull him to come out.
All Sch.
Ay, come out of the Chair, come out.
Harl.
I'm a Philosopher! I'm a Philosopher! I'm a Philosopher!
Enter Mistress. They all run to their places. Harl. sees the Mistress, and runs to her.
Mist.
So, what's to do here?
Harl.
O que Diavolo!
Mist.
This is fine! my back's no sooner turn'd, but you are all at your Gambols: Come, for this trick, he that has not his Lesson perfect, shall be sent home with a good whipping: and first, let's see what you can do, you, Mr. Philosopher.
Harl.
Signiora!
Mist.
Come, and stand by my Chair; so, stand upright. How chance you han't wash'd your hands to day?
Harl.
O! no matter.
Mist.
No matter, said you?
Harl.
I forgot it.
Mist.
Forget to wash 'em another morning, and I'l scour 'em for you with a good Rod.
Harl.
Ha! ha! he!
Mist.
Out, you great sloven; come to School with dirtyhands!
Harl.
Euh, Signiora! well enough, well enough.
Mist.
Well enough! but let me sind it so agen, and it shall be ill enough with you.
Harl.
Mayn't a Philosopher have dirty-hands?
Mist.
Look I see't no more so.
Harl.
What does Mrs. Philosopher concern her self so with my hands, for?
Mist.
Come, let me hear you say your Lesson now. Shut your Book, say over the Alphabet, begin.
Harl.
A, b, c, d, e, f, g, h, i, k, l, m, n, p.
Mist.
N, p! what's the next letter to N?
Harl.
P.
Mist.
P, agen? there's the second fault; hold out your hand.
Harl.
My hand?
Mist.
Hold it out to receive instruction, thus; so, now look on the top of the house, and see what letter sticks on the Seeling.
He holds out his hand, she hits him with a Ferrula.
Harl.
O!
Mist.
O then is the next letter, l, m, n, o. This, I see, will make you a Scholar.
Harl.
I find 'tis as Mr. Doctore said, she's a profound Philosopher.
Mist.
N, O, P; then go on.
Harl.
N, O, P, Q, R, S, T, U, W, X, Y, Z.
Mist.
How, open your Book, and read.
Harl.
A, b, ab, e, b, eb, i, b, ib, o, b, ob, u, b, ub. B, a, ab.
Mist.
How's that? b, a, spell ab?
Harl.
Yes.
Mist.
A, b, spells ab; B, a, spells—what? what says the Sheep?
Harl.
What says a Sheep? Ha! ha! ha! he!
Mist.
What says the Sheep?
Harl.
The Sheep says—Ha! ha! he! nothing can a Sheep speak.
Mist.
Did you never hear a Sheep cry Ba?
Harl.
Ba? yes.
Mist.
Well then, B, a, spells Ba; this is the third fault▪ Come, a sound whipping will quicken your apprehension.
Harl.
Ha, ha, he.
Mist.
I am glad to see you so chearful; come, put your head through the back o'this Chair.
Harl.
What means Mrs. Philosopher?
Mist.
Come down, down, I say—
Hits his hand with a Rod.
Harl.
Eh,—Eh,—Mrs. Philosopher.
Mist.
How long must I stand waiting on you? Down, down, I say.
Hits him agen.
Harl.
Eh,—Eh,—Mrs. Philosopher.—
Mist.
Down with your head.—
Hits him agen.
Harl.
Eh, Eh.
Mist.
So, children, one of you untruss his Points quickly.
Harl.
Ha, whipt! whip a Philosopher? Eh,—Eh,—Mrs. Philosopher, Mrs. Philosopher.
Mist.
Untruss, untruss, does he resist; here, every one of you take a Rod, and help me.
Whips his hand.
Harl. puts his head through the back o'the Chair, lifts it up, runs about the Room with it hanging on his neck; all the children take Rods, and, with the Mistress, run about the Stage whipping him. He runs out, the Scene shuts.
Harl.
Eh,—Eh,—Eh, Signiora Mrs. Philosopher, Signiora▪ Mrs. Philosopher. Eh, Eh, Eh.—
Exeunt.
Enter Harlequin.
Harl.
Whipt! a Pox o' Mrs. Philosopher. Whipt! Devil take Mrs. Philosopher. O! here comes Signior Scaramouch; I'l go and consult with him. Signior Scaramouch!
Enter Scaramouch.
Scar.
Harlequin!
Harl.
Signior Scaramouch, I am disgusted with the affairs o'the World, and resolve to apply my self to other things. I have a desire to be a Philosopher.
Scar.
A Philosopher?
Harl.
Signior si.
Scar.
Hola!—within there! Prepare▪ the habit of a Novitiate; go, go, into the Hall, and they'l put you on the habit of a Novitiate.
Harl.
A Novitiate! no, no, of a Philosopher.
Scar.
Of a Philosopher of the first Class.
Harl.
First Class! what's that?
Scar.
Of a Novice.
Harl.
O ho! of the Sect of the Novice Philosopher.
Goes into the house, and re-enters.
Scar.
Go, 'tis ready for you. So, now you have assum'd the Robes of a Philosopher, 'tis requisite your mind shou'd be invested too with the habits of a Philosopher.
Enter Harl. in a great Gown of Mat, with Hanging-sleeves of the same, and a broad Straw-hat, with one half of the brim pull'd under his chin, parting from the head.
Harl.
Signior si.
Scar.
The habits then requisite for the mind are these.
Harl.
By the way, one word, I pray, Signior Scaramouch; are the habits of the mind for a Philosopher, made of the same stuff as the habits of his body? Methinks this shou'd be a little too coarse for the in-side.
Scar.
A habit is a certain facility added to our power, and helping it to act.—As for example,—a—
Harl.
A certain facility!
Scar.
Eh! As for example, a Rope-dancer, who by often practising to dance upon a Rope, grows at last expert, and does it with ease.
Harl.
So I, by often wearing my new Shooes—
Scar.
What?
Harl.
Wore 'em out.
Scar.
Euh—Peuh—
Harl.
Signior Scaramouch, hear me now: A habit is a certain facility added to our power, and helping it to act. As for example, a Rope-dancer, who by often dancing upon the Rope, at last breaks his neck with case—
Scar.
O stupidity! the principal vertues requisite in a Philosopher, are Patience, Temperance, Sobriety and Chastity; the first is Patience, he must not be provoked to anger.
Harl.
If I am struck by any one, may I not strike agen?
Scar.
No.
Harl.
No! If a Mule kick me, may I not kick agen?
Scar.
No.
Harl.
No! I'l be no Philosopher.
Throws off his Gown.
Scar.
Not unless you can kick harder than him.
Harl.
O ho! then if any one strike me, I may strike agen, if I think I can beat him. Cud-so! I find there's reason in Philosophy.
Scar.
The next is Temperance; a Philosopher must be temperate, he must not eat much.
Harl.
Not eat much?
Scar.
No, eating dulls the brain.
Harl.
Not eat much!
Scar.
No.
Harl.
No! I'l be no Philosopher.
Scar.
Not much Mutton, or Beef, nor such gross meat, but good Capons, Partridg, and Pheasant.
Harl.
O ho! Pray go on.
Scar.
The next is Sobriety; a Philosopher must not be drunk, nor given to drink.
Harl.
Mayn't a Philosopher drink?
Scar.
Not much.
Harl.
No, I'l be no Philosopher.
Scar.
Unless.
Harl.
No, no, unless I may drink as much as I please, I'l be no Philosopher.
Scar.
No Philosopher!
Harl.
No, I love good Wine.
Scar.
You must not drink sour, naughty, crude Wines, but the best you can get; as Monti-Pulchino, Montifiasco, and Florence Wines.
Harl.
O ho!
Scar▪
Be sure the Wine you drink, be good.
Harl.
O, I'm of your opinion, Signior; I find I shall soon be a Philosopher, because I come of the kind; my Mother was a Philosopher; for the knew what was good for her; she always kept the best for her self.
Scar.
The last is, Chastity; you must not run after Women.
Harl.
Nor mayn't they come to me?
Scar.
No.
Harl.
I'l be no Philosopher.
Scar.
Hold.
Harl.
Mayn't I lye with them neither?
Scar.
No.
Harl.
I'l be no Philosopher.
Scar.
Not unless you are marri'd.
Harl.
Not unless I am marri'd!
Scar.
And then too with great moderation.
Harl.
I'l be no Philosopher.
Scar.
Hold.
Harl.
Mayn't I now and then, when I've got Money, go to a Wench?
Scar.
No.
Harl.
Not if I'm sure she be sound?
Scar.
Upon no account.
Harl.
No; I'l be no Philosopher, I'l be no Philosopher.
Scar.
Hold, hold, hold.
Harl.
No, no; I'l be no Philosopher, no Philosopher; I'l be no Philosopher.
Ex.
Scar.
Euh! Que Bestia, Bruto, Animale.
Ex.
Enter Harlequin, Plautino, Cynthio, Octav.
Harl.
Philosopher; a Pox take Philosophers; I'l be no more a Philosopher: Not to go to a Wench! Eh, he, he.
Plaut.
He's here.
Harl.
Eh, Signior Octavio, here!
Cynt.
Nay, you can't avoid us now.
Harl.
Euh, Signior, I demand pardon.
Falls on's knees.
Plaut.
Harlequin, you must along with me, now is the time for you to shew your Parts.
Harl.
Euh, Signior Octavio; I demand pardon.
Plaut.
Come, think of my instructions, and let's see how well you can perform, after the pains I have taken with you.
Oct.
My dear Harlequin, listen to his discourse.
Harl.
Ah ha! now, dear Harlequin, now you have need of me.
Starts up, and walks huffing about.
Oct.
Go, I pardon all thou hast confest, and worse yet, if thou hast don't.
Harl.
No, Signior, no; don't pardon me, run me through, kill me; I shall tak't for an Honour to dye by so noble a hand.
Oct.
No, Merit rewards by being assistant to my love.
Harl.
No, Signior, kill me; Signior, kill me.
Oct.
I'l forget thou ever didst offend me.
Harl.
Kill me, Signior, kill me.
Oct.
I'l never be angry with thee hereafter, do what thou wilt.
Harl.
Kill me, Signior, kill me.
Oct.
No, I have too great a love for thee, my poor dear Harlequin; come, be good natur'd.
Harl.
To surprise me, and so to affront me.
Cynt.
Come, come, forget and forgive.
Harl.
To call me so many Rogues and Villains.
Oct.
It was my passion.
Harl.
To offer to run your Sword down my throat.
Plaut.
Eh, Harlequin.
Harl.
To make me bring to light the secrets that had long lain buri'd under the Tombstone of my heart.—
Oct.
I am sorry for't.
Harl.
To make me discover what I had sworn never to reveal.—
Oct.
I ask thee pardon, my dear Harlequin be pacifi'd, take pitty of a poor Lover,
Cynt.
This ought to mollify.
Harl.
Well, you'l never take me to Confession agen?—
Oct.
No.
Harl.
Nor kill me?
Oct.
No.
Harl.
Nor run me through?
Oct.
No.
Harl.
Nor thrust your Sword down my throat?
Oct.
No.
Harl.
Well then, I pardon you.
Plaut.
Go then, prepare to come forth with all speed; all things are in readiness, be gone.
Harl.
Allagre, Signior Octavio, Allagre.
Ex.
Plaut.
O, here comes Signior Pancrace chewing the cud; be gone, and leave me to proceed in my Enterprise. Take care of my reserve, and hasten him into the field.
Exeunt.
Enter Pancrace.
Panc.
T' have so little conduct and consideration, to throw himself into such a snare as this!—O! the unadvisedness of youth!
Plaut.
Sir, your Servant.
Panc.
How do you, Plautino?
Plaut.
You are thinking of your Son.
Panc.
It gives me no small trouble.
Plaut.
Life is full of changes; it is good always to be prepar'd for the worst.
Panc.
I cou'd ha' born any thing but this.
Plaut,
Every one can bear the evils which might have hapned; but 'tis the part of a Philosopher to master his Temper, and command his Passions in the evils which do happen.
Panc.
I'l tell you, Mr. Plautino, nothing but this cou'd have mov'd me:—This is a thing;—Well, I'm just going to Counsel about it, to know how to remedy it.
Plaut.
Pray hearken to me, Signior Pancrace; try some other way to adjust the business, you are not ignorant that Law requires much sawce, and you will hang your self upon dangerous Tenters.
Panc.
You are in the right; but pray what is that other way?
Plaut.
I went and found out the Brother of this young Woman your Son has marri'd; he is by profession a Bravo, one that lives by cutting of throats; he never speaks without an Oath in's mouth, and makes no more scruple to kill a man, than to blow out the snuff of a Candle. I discours'd him upon the Marriage, and found him reasonably inclin'd to accommodate the business for a certain Sum of Money; and provided he may have it, he's contented to suffer a Divorce.
Panc.
What is't he demands?
Plaut.
Oh! 'tis very considerable.
Panc.
But what?
Plaut.
Extravagant things.
Panc.
Well, let me hear?
Plaut.
Nothing under 5 or 600 Pistols.
Panc.
Five or 600 l evors and Quartan-Agues seize him! he does it to jeer us.
Plaut.
So I told him I wou'd not give ear to such a Proposition, and said that you was not a man of that easy temper to be whistled out of your Money: After a long debate, the result was this;—I am, says he, in a short time, to go to the Army in Flanders; I must be well accoutred, and have need of Money, which makes me consent to what otherwise I shou'd not hearken to: I want a good serviceable Horse for the Wars, which will not cost less than threescore Pistols.
Panc.
Well, threescore Pistols shall break no squares.
Plaut.
I shall want too, says he, a Sword, Pistols, Scarf and Feather; which will cost at least thirty Pistols more.
Panc.
Thirty and threescore, make fourscore and ten.
Plaut.
Just.
Panc.
'Tis a great Sum, but for once I'l be content, because you advise me.
Plaut.
I shall want too, says he, a Horse for my Man, which will cost thirty Pistols.
Panc.
A Horse for his Man?
Plaut.
Yes.
Panc.
Let him walk a-foot, and be hang'd! a Horse for his Man! Pox on him, he shall have none.
Plaut.
But, Sir?
Panc.
No, he's an impertinent Rascal! A Horse for his Man!
Plaut.
Auh, fye, Sir! what, wou'd you have the Servant ride and a Cavalier go a-foot?
Panc.
E'ne let him go as he please, and the Master too. A Horse for his Man!
Plaut.
Come, Sir, ne'r stick out for so small a matter; don't go to intangle your self in Law: give it, give it, to save the trouble of going to Law.
Panc.
Ha, well;—Since you will have it so, I will. But he's a Rogue! a great Rogue! a Horse for his Man! a Pox on him; they shall neither of 'em have one for me.
Plaut.
Signior Pancrace; a Philosopher, and recall his words!
Panc.
Well then, Signior Plautino, because I said it, I'l stand to't.
Plaut.
I must have too, says he, a Sumpter-Horse to carry—
Panc.
O! let him go to the Devil with his Sumpter-Horse, I'l to Law.
Plaut▪
Ah! consider, Sir!
Panc.
No, no Sumpter-Horse.
Plaut.
What, not a little Mule?
Panc.
No, I'l to Law.
Plaut.
Consider, Signior Pancrace.
Panc.
No, no, I'l to Law.
Plaut.
Ah! not a little paltry Mule?
Panc.
I'l to Law, I'l to Law.
Plaut.
Of some 8 or 10 Pistols price.
Panc.
No, no, 3 or 4 Crowns it may be, to buy him a little Ass.
Plaut.
What, Sir; an Ass to carry his Luggage to the Wars?
Panc.
Then I'l to Law.
Plaut.
No, pray don't talk of going to Law: there will be Money for Declarations, Pleas, Answers, Rejoynders, Sub-Rejoynders, Demurs, Motions, Non-Suits, and Removing from one Court to another: Then your Appeals. Eh!—if once you entangle your self, you'l sooner see the end of your Estate, than of your Suit of Law.
Panc.
And what, I pray, will this Sumpter-Beast cost?
Plaut.
For his Horse, his Man's, and the Sumpter-Horse; and for the Pistols, Sword, Scarf and Feather, with Bridles, Saddles, and other Furniture, and to pay some dribling Debts which he owes to his Landlady, Laundress, and so forth; he demands in all, 200 Pistols.
Panc.
Two hundred Pistols?
Plaut.
Yes.
Panc.
Two hundred Pistols. I'l to Law, to Law.
Plaut.
Bethink your self.
Panc.
I'l to Law.
Plaut.
Don't embroil your self.
Panc.
I say I'l to Law.
Plaut.
You must spend a world of Money in Law; you must give the Clerks Expedition-Money, pay for Writing, Drawing, Engrossing, Copying, Sealing, Endorsing, and all several Charges. Then for Fees in Court, Judges Fees, King's Duties. Then, Sir, what's most requisite of all, Bribing of Judges: your Adversary too does the like. So that after all, 'tis but Cross and Pile who gets the better. O! Signior Pancrace, Law-expences are numberless; give this Fellow his Money, and there's an end; 'tis easier to satisfy one Rogue than a thousand.
Panc.
Give him 200 Pistols!
Plaut.
Yes, and be a gainer by't. I've cast up what a Suit of Law amounts to; and I find, that giving him 200 Pistols, will save you five; not reckoning your trouble, pains, vexations, going, waiting, sending, fetching and carrying, and following a company of busy Coxcombs, who will but laugh at you when you ha' done. I wou'd rather give 500 Pistols than go to Law, tho I were sure to get the better.
Panc.
Laugh at the learn'd, I defy 'em.
Plaut.
Signior Pancrace, you may do as you please; but were it to me, I'd give 200 Pistols, and laugh at them.
Panc.
No, I'l to Law, I'l to Law.
Plaut.
Here comes the Gentleman himself.
Enter Harlequin in the habit of a Bravo, with a huge Sword, and a Girdle stuck round with Pistols and Daggers, which are discover'd by▪ his Cloak falling off;—and Rosy-Cheeks, with great Whiskers.
Harl.
Signior Plautino, carry me to this Dog of a Dr. to this damn'd Heathen Philosopher, this old Rogue, the Father of Cynthio.
Plaut.
For what, Signiot Cavalier?
Harl.
I hear he's for going to Law, and for getting a Divorce against my Sister! I'l divorce him! I'l divorce his Soul from his Body!
Plaut.
I know not whether he intends any such thing.
Harl.
I hear he does, carry me to him; I'l make a Woodcock of the Philosopher. Pick a hole in his Skull, and sup up his Brains for my Breakfast.
Plaut.
He'd make no more to do't, than to sup off a RawEgg. I heard indeed he will not consent to give you 200 Pistols, he says 'tis too much.
To Pancrace behind him.
Harl.
Death, and Heart! if I find him, I'll dissect him; tho I'm broken alive upon the Wheel as soon as 'tis done.
Plaut.
Signior Pancrace is a man of Resolution, and perhaps does not fear you, nor any man that wears a head.
Harl.
He,—he not fear me! Death, and Heart! if I find him, with this Sword I'l rip him from the Belly up to the Chin. Who'! is he there?
Plaut.
O Signior! that's none of him, that's none of him.
Harl.
Nor no Friend of his?
Plrut.
On the contrary, the greatest enemy he has.
Harl.
I am glad o'that of my Soul: Signior, are you an enemy to that Logical, Moral, Phisical, Meta-phisical Philosopher? that Syllogistical Dunder-noll Doctor? Ounds! are you his enemy? ha!
Plaut.
Yes, Signior; I'l assure you he is.
Harl.
Give me thy hand then, old Trojan; I swear to thee by my Reputation, by ten thousand Devils, and all their Dams, before two days are at an end, I'l whet my Sword upon the bones of him. Therefore fet your heart at rest, and let me alone to revenge all; I'l send his Soul to the Devil, throw his Carkass to the Dogs, and bring you his Brains in a Mustard pot; Damnation! I will Boy!—Eh!—
Plaut.
Such things are not suffer'd here.
Harl.
Ounds! I'm a Souldierly Philosopher, and carry all my wealth about me; my Sword is my Plough, and another Countrey will serve for Tillage as well as this.—For the death of him I will be, tho his Soul, by transmigration, goes presently into a wild Bull, and he bears me away upon his Horns.
Plaut.
He has heard of your threatning, and will be upon his guard; he has many Friends, Acquaintance, and Servants, that will desend him.
Harl.
Let 'em come, let 'em come, a thousand of 'em; 'tis what I desire. S'death!—Heart!—and Ounds!—Oh! that he were but here now, in the midst of twenty friends and all their Swords in their hands; Eh,—you Rogues, you Dogs, come on! Allone! Morblieu! Sa, sa; Kill, kill; no quarter; Slash,—cut, thrust,—kill,—stand fast;—Eh! you cowardly Rogues, you Dogs, you Sons of Whores! Have at you,—at you,—at you,—at you,—at you! Do you give ground? Stand fast, you Dogs; fast! Ha!—Eh!—
Pushes on all sides with his Sword.
Plaut.
Eh!—Eh!—Eh!—We are none of 'em, Sir.
Harl.
Ha! do you rally agen? are there more of you? Have amongst you!
Shoots.
There's for you! Thus wou'd I ha' serv'd 100 of 'em.
Ex.
Plaut.
You see how many throats he'd cut for 200 Pistols. I wish you were well out of this business
Panc.
Plautino.
Plaut.
Signior.
Panc.
He shall have 200 Pistols.
Plaut.
I am glad on't, for your sake.
Panc.
Call him, I have so much about me.
Plaut.
Give 'em me, 'twill not be for your Honour to see him, now you have past for another; and I fear, if he shou'd get you in his power, he wou'd stand upon greater matters.
Panc.
Hold your hand, but take care my business be done fore you part from my Money.
Plaut.
I warrant you.
Panc.
I'l go home and expect your coming; be sure you see it done.
Ex.
Plaut.
Trouble not your self, I'l bring you a good account how I part from't.—So, here's one Bird catch'd in chaff.
Enter Cynthio.
Cynt.
Have you done any thing to the comfort of a poor Lover?
Plaut.
See, there are 200 drops of your Father's heartsblood.
Cynt.
Witty Plautino, what comfort thou giv'st me! Come, let's haste to purchase what I value more than life. Now! my lov'd Zerbinetta! thou art mine!
Exeunt.
Enter Scaramouch and Harlequin.
Scar.
Octavio comes not yet near me; 'tis so,—he has done something;—I'l go find him out, and make him confess the business.
Harl.
O, Signior Philosopher! O, Signior Scaramouch!
Scar.
What, what?
Harl.
Your Son.
Scar.
Well, my Son.
Harl.
Has the greatest misfortune befallen him; alas poor Mr. Octavio.
Scar.
What? ha!
Harl.
I sound him in a very melancholly mood, for something you had said to him; and to divert his thoughts, we took a walk to the Sea-side; where, amongst other things, I saw a Fisherman going out; we went a-board for pastime, to see some sport. When we were a league off at Sea, a small Vessel made up to us; we suspected nothing, but when they came they boarded us; took us all out of the Fisher-man, and clapt us under Hatches.
Scar.
Octavio too?
Harl.
Signior si, they were Pyrats, Runagado-Rogues; they have sent me a-shoar in a long-Boat, to tell you that if you don't immediately send 'em 500 Dollers, they'l carry your Son away to Algiers.
Scar.
Five hundred Dollers?
Harl.
Yes, and have allow'd me but two hours for my return.
Scar.
What a murrain made him go a fishing?
Harl.
Eh,—Signior Scaramouch; a Philosopher can bear injuries as he ought.
Scar.
They demand, you say—
Harl.
Five hundred Dollers.
Scar.
Think they that's a Sum one wou'd be content to part from?
Harl.
They are great fools.
Scar.
And that I have nothing to do with my Money but to send it to them?
Harl.
Pyrats, Signior, are a sort of folks that don't understand Philosophy.
Scar.
Four hundred Dollars, say you?
Harl.
Five hundred, Signior.
Scar.
Five hundred?
Harl.
Yes Sir, but make hast. Hold your hand. Go and ransom my Son.
He holds the Purse, and talks, which he does not let go, and carries his arm from one side to t'other. Harl. does the like.
Harl.
Yes Sir.
Scar.
But tell these Pyrats that they are Rascals.
Harl.
Yes.
Scar.
Rogues.
Harl.
Yes.
Scar.
Great Rogues, Thieves, Cut-throats.
Harl.
Let me alone.
Scar.
They get these 500 Dollers from me against my will.
Harl.
Yes.
Scar.
And which I wou'd not ha' given them to save their lives.
Harl.
Very good.
Scar.
And that if ever it lies in my power, I'l be reveng'd.
Harl.
Yes.
Scar.
Go make hast, and bring my Son a-shoar.
Puts the Purse in's pocket, and is going away.
Harl.
But, Signior.
Scar.
What?
Harl.
Where's the Money?
Scar.
Han't you't.
Harl.
Not I, you put it up agen in your pocket.
Scar.
I know not what I do, I'm so vext.
Harl.
Twou'd vex a man—
Scar.
What a murrain made him go a fishing?
Ex.
Harl.
Ha! ha! he! Signior Philosopher!
Enter Octavio.
Oct.
Harlequin.
Harl.
Signior Philosopher; Ha! ha! he!
Oct.
I find thou hast good news, thou art so merry?
Harl.
Signior, no.
Oct.
Can'st thou do nothing for me?
Harl.
Signior, no.
Oct.
Must I then despair?
Harl.
I have done all I can.
Oct.
Do'st thou give me comfort?
Harl.
Signior, no; the Stars are unlucky.
Oct.
I will then find out a place for my retreat; lye down, and sigh away my life.
Harl.
Stay, Signior Octavio, here's luck in a bag for you.
Oct.
Thou shewest me life, health, and all.
Harl.
How, call me names, and run your Sword down my throat!
Oct.
No more of that, I have forgot it.
Oct.
I part with this Money, on condition that you give me leave to be reveng'd on Signior Scaramouch, for what he said of me.
Oct.
Do as thou wilt.
Harl.
There then's your Sum.
Oct.
I'l hast to tell Aurelia this good news.
Ex.
Harl.
And I to be reveng'd on Signior Philosopher.
Ex.
Enter Pancrace and Spittzaferro.
Spitt.
So affected with Gallantry! such a Lover of Balls, Masques, and other Divertisements! I have been all this while mistaken in her humour, I'l not concern my self at what she does, or where she goes! can this be wholsome to a Husband's Reputation! Well, I will hear what the learned will say on this point. And first, I'l consult with Signior Pancracio.
Panc.
Go, go friend, you are very impertinent, and ought to be banish'd the Republick of Letters.
Spitt.
Oh! here he cames to my purpose.
Panc.
Yes, and not without very good reason: I say you are a Dunce, a Blockhead, an Ignorant; an Ignorantior, an Ignorantissimus, an Ignorantissimetissimus, an Ignoramus per omnes Casus, Moods and Tenses.
Spitt.
He has been wrangling with somebody in a Disputation▪ Signior.
Panc.
You will be arguing, and know not so much as the very Rudiments of Learning.
Spitt.
Passion blinds him so, he sees me not, Signior.
Panc.
'Tis a Proposition condemn'd, confuted, rejected by all Philosophers both Ancient and Modern.
Spitt.
Somebody has much incens'd him,—I—
Panc.
Toto Coelo, Toto via aberras.
Spitt.
I kiss your hands, Signior Pancrace.
Panc.
Servant, Servant.
Spitt.
Can I—
Panc.
Do you know what you have done! A Syllogism in Bocardo.
Spitt.
I desire—
Panc.
The Major's absurd, the Minor's impertinent, and the Conclusion ridiculous.
Spitt.
I desi—
Panc.
I'd sooner dye than grant what you say, and I'l defend my opinion to the last drop of my Ink.
Spitt.
Can I—
Panc.
Yes, I'l defend this Proposition; certantes pugnis & calcibus, unguibus & rostro.
Spitt.
Signior Aristotle, pray what has so incens'd you?
Panc.
I have all the reason in the World.
Spitt.
Pray what was't?
Panc.
An illiterate Blockhead, wou'd maintain an erronious Proposition; a false, damnable, destructive, execrable Proposition.
Spitt.
May I beg leave to know what 'twas?
Panc.
Ah! Signior Spittzaferro, nature is this day reverst, and the World is falling to a general decay, a most shameful License reigns every where, and the Magistrates who are establisht to take care of the Publick, ought to blush for shame, in suffering such a horrible and intolerable Scandal as this.
Spitt.
What, pray?
Panc.
Is it not a most horrible thing, a thing that cries to Heaven for vengeance, that it shou'd be suffer'd, for a man publickly to cry the form of a Hat?
Spitt.
How's that?
Panc.
I maintain that a man ought to say the figure of a Hat, and not the form; yes, not forma, but figura; for there is this difference betwixt form and figure, that the form is the external disposition of animate Bodies; the figure is the external dispositions of Bodies inanimate: It ought to be said, the figure of a Hat, and not the form. Go-to, Dunce as thou art, this is the truth of the thing, these are the express terms of Aristotle, in his Chapter of Quality.
Spitt.
Marry, I thought we had been all undone! Come, Signior Pancrace, think no more of this; I have a business to impart to you. I desire—
Panc.
O, impertinent Blockhead!
Spitt.
Pray forget it. I desi—
Panc.
Dunce.
Spitt.
I beseech you, Sir,—I—de—
Panc.
To defend against me such a Proposition as this.
Spitt.
He was in the wrong,—I—
Panc.
A Proposition condem'd by Aristotle.
Spitt.
That's true,—I—
Panc.
In express terms—
Spitt.
Y'are in the right; yes,—you are a Fool, a Dunce, an Ouff, a Sot, a Blockhead, to dispute against a Learn'd Doctor that can both write and read,—So now the business is over, I desire you'd give me your attention; I come to consult with you about a business which very much puzzles me, I have thoughts of Marrying, to have a Companion in the business of the World; the person is handsome, and I like her very well: she thinks her self a happy Woman to have me for a Husband; her Father and I are agreed: But I'm a little startled at a thing that you may guess—of a blow that a man never feels when 'tis given him. And I desire you, as being a Philosopher, to tell me your opinion. How, what do you advise me too?
Panc.
Sooner than I wou'd accord to say the form of a Hat, I wou'd be brought to affirm, that datur vacuum in rerum natura; and that I am not a Man, but a Vegetable, a Plant, or a four footed Beast.
Spitt.
Doubtless he's possest; Mr. Doctor, pray hear me a little; I have been speaking to you this half hour, and you don't mind what I say.
Panc.
I beg your pardon, I am so incens'd when I hear the truth oppugn'd.
Spitt.
Well, Sir, forget it, and give me your attention.
Panc.
Very good;—what wou'd you with me, good Signior Spittzaferro?
Spitt.
I wou'd speak to you concerning a business.
Panc.
In what, Idiom?
Spitt.
Idiom!
Panc.
In what Language wou'd you discourse; in French?
Spitt.
No.
Panc.
Spanish?
Spitt.
No.
Panc.
Dutch?
Spitt.
No.
Panc.
English?
Spitt.
No.
Panc.
Latin?
Spitt.
No.
Panc.
Greek?
Spitt.
No.
Panc.
Hebrew?
Spitt.
No.
Panc.
Syriack?
Spitt.
No.
Panc.
Arabick?
Spitt.
No.
Panc.
Chaldea?
Spitt.
No.
Panc.
Turkish?
Spitt.
No, no, no; in Italian, in Italian.
Panc.
Oh! in Italian?
Spitt.
Yes.
Panc.
Go then on t'other side, for this ear is destin'd only to Scientifical Languages; and this for my Mother-tongue.
Spitt.
What a deal of Ceremony there is with these Learn'd Men.
Panc.
Well, now tell me what you wou'd have?
Spitt.
I wou'd have your opinion concerning a difficulty.
Panc.
A Philosophical difficulty, without doubt.
Spitt.
Excuse me,—I—
Panc.
Perhaps you wou'd know if Substance and Accident be terms synonimus, or equivocal, in respect of being.
Spitt.
Not at all, Signior.
Panc.
If Logick be an Art or a Science?—
Spitt.
Not that neither I—
Panc.
If it has for its objects the three operations of the understanding, or only the third?
Spitt.
No,—I—
Pauc.
If there be ten Categories, or only one?
Spitt.
Not I—I—
Panc.
If the Conclusion be of the Essence of eight Syllogisms.
Spitt.
No, no,—I.
Aanc.
If the essence of good consists in the Appetibility, that is in being desirable, or in being convenient?
Spitt.
No, that I—
Panc.
If good be reciprocal with the end?
Spitt.
Peu! Ho! I—
Panc.
If the end can move us by its real being, or by the intentional, that is, by the being it has in our apprehensions?
Spitt.
No, no, no, a Pox o'the Devil; none of all this.
Panc.
Explain your self then, for I can't guess what 'tis.
Spitt.
Aye, Aye, Signior, I wou'd explain my self; but you must hear me then: The business that I wou'd discourse with you about, is this: That I have some thoughts of Marrying a Gentlewoman, that is young and handsome, and one who has a kindness for me; and I have ask'd her Fathers consent. But now I apprehend—
They speak together.
Panc.
Speech is given to a man
At the same time.
to explain his thoughts; and just as thoughts are the representations of things, so are our words the representations of our thoughts. But those representations are distinguish'd from others, in-as-much as other representations are altogether distinguish'd from their originals; and words include in themselves their originals, they being nothing else but the thoughts explicated by external signs; from whence it comes, that those who think well, do also speak well. Now therefore explain your thoughts to me by your words, which are, of all signs, the most intelligible.
Spittz. pushes the Doctor into his house, and returns.
Spittz.
The Devil take all such folks as won't hear a man speak: I'l go find out the other Philosopher; he perhaps may be more reasonable, and less talkative.
Panc. comes out agen, and Spittz. pushes him in.
Panc.
Now, Aristotle says there is this difference—
Spitt.
Are you there agen with your Aristotle? Go, your Master Aristotle's a Fool, and you are an Ass.
Exeunt.
The End of the third Act.