Sir, 'twas a Mistake.

[_Knocking at the Door_.

[Scaramouch _having placed them all in the Hanging, in which they
make the Figures, where they stand without Motion in Postures, he
comes out. He opens the Door with a Candle in his Hand_.

_Enter the_ Doctor _and_ Peter _with a Light_.

_Scar_. Bless me, Sir! Is it you--or your Ghost?

_Doct_. 'Twere good for you, Sir, if I were a thing of Air; but as I am
a substantial Mortal, I will lay it on as substantially--
[_Canes him. He cries_.

_Scar_. What d'ye mean, Sir? what d'ye mean?

_Doct_. Sirrah, must I stand waiting your Leisure, while you are roguing
here? I will reward ye. [_Beats him_.

_Scar_. Ay, and I shall deserve it richly, Sir, when you know all.

_Doct_. I guess all, Sirrah, and I heard all, and you shall be rewarded
for all. Where have you hid the Fiddles, you Rogue?

_Scar_. Fiddles, Sir!

_Doct_. Ay, Fiddles, Knave.

_Scar_. Fiddles, Sir!--Where?

_Doct_. Here, here I heard 'em, thou false Steward of thy Master's
Treasure.

_Scar_. Fiddles, Sir! Sure 'twas Wind got into your Head, and whistled
in your Ears, riding so late, Sir.

_Doct_. Ay, thou false Varlet, there's another debt I owe thee, for
bringing me so damnable a Lye: my Brother's well--I met his Valet but a
League from Town, and found thy Roguery out. [_Beats him. He cries_.

_Scar_. Is this the Reward I have for being so diligent since you went?

_Doct_. In what, thou Villain? in what?

[_The Curtain is drawn up, and discovers the Hangings where
all of them stand_.

_Scar_. Why, look you, Sir, I have, to surprize you with Pleasure,
against you came home, been putting up this Piece of Tapestry, the best
in Italy, for the Rareness of the Figures, Sir.

_Doct_. Ha! hum--It is indeed a Stately Piece of Work; how came I by 'em?

_Scar_. 'Twas sent your Reverence from the _Virtuoso_, or some of the
Cabalists.

_Doct_. I must confess, the Workmanship is excellent;--but still I do
insist I heard the Musick.

_Scar_. 'Twas then the tuning of the Spheres, some Serenade, Sir, from
the Inhabitants of the Moon.

_Doct_. Hum, from the Moon,--and that may be.

_Scar_. Lord, d'ye think I wou'd deceive your Reverence?

_Doct_. From the Moon, a Serenade,--I see no signs on't here, indeed it
must be so--I'll think on't more at leisure. [_Aside_.
--Prithee what Story's this? [_Looks on the H