uin_ and _Scaramouche_; _Carlo_ with
other _Spaniards_ below, and Rabble; _Ariadne_ and _Lucia_ above in
the Balcony, others on the other side, _Fetherfool_ and _Blunt_
below.

_Will._ (_bowing_) Behold this little Viol, which contains in its narrow
Bounds what the whole Universe cannot purchase, if sold to its true
Value; this admirable, this miraculous Elixir, drawn from the Hearts of
Mandrakes, Phenix Livers, and Tongues of Maremaids, and distill'd by
contracted Sun-Beams, has besides the unknown Virtue of curing all
Distempers both of Mind and Body, that divine one of animating the Heart
of Man to that Degree, that however remiss, cold and cowardly by Nature,
he shall become vigorous and brave. Oh stupid and insensible Man, when
Honour and secure Renown invites you, to treat it with Neglect, even
when you need but passive Valour, to become the Heroes of the Age;
receive a thousand Wounds, each of which wou'd let out fleeting Life:
Here's that can snatch the parting Soul in its full Career, and bring it
back to its native Mansion; baffles grim Death, and disappoints even
Fate.

_Feth._ Oh Pox, an a Man were sure of that now--

_Will._ Behold, here's Demonstration--
[Harlequin stabs himself, and falls as dead.

_Feth._ Hold, hold, why, what the Devil is the Fellow mad?

_Blunt._ Why, do'st think he has hurt himself?

_Feth._ Hurt himself! why, he's murder'd, Man; 'tis flat _Felo de se_,
in any ground in _England_, if I understand Law, and I have been a
Justice o'th' Peace.

_Will._ See, Gentlemen, he's dead--

_Feth._ Look ye there now, I'll be gone lest I be taken as an Accessary.

[Going out.

_Will._ Coffin him, inter him, yet after four and twenty Hours, as many
Drops of this divine Elixir give him new Life again; this will recover
whole Fields of slain, and all the Dead shall rise and fight again--
'twas this that made the Roman Lemons numerous, and now makes _France_
so formidable, and this alone-- may be the Occasion of the loss of
_Germany_.
[Pours in _Harlequin's_ Wound, he rises.

_Feth._ Why this Fellow's the Devil, _Ned_, that's for certain.

_Blunt._ Oh plague, a damn'd Conjurer, this--

_Will._ Come, buy this Coward's Comfort, quickly buy; what Fop would be
abus'd, mimick'd and scorn'd, for fear of Wounds can be so easily cured?
Who is't wou'd bear the Insolence and Pride of domineering great Men,
proud Officers or Magistrates? or who wou'd cringe to Statesmen out