_Scar._ Your unseasonable Thankfulness has rob"d us of our Strumpet.
_Har._ No matter, no matter; we shall meet her in the Cloisters after the Fair. Come let"s fall too.
[_They put their Caps before their Faces._
Ha!
_Scar._ The Table runs away from us.
_Har._ We"ll bestow the Pains to follow it again; this I see is a running Banquet.
[_They put their Caps on again, the Table removes._
_Scar._ I have found the Secret: We must not say Grace at the Devil"s Feast.
_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 G.o.d 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.
_Har._ Ay, "tis often so: G.o.d 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 d.a.m.nably 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_.
_Har._ Come, no Ceremony among Friends. _Bon. fro._
_Scar._ _Sallad mal adjuste_; here"s neither Fat nor Lean.
_Har._ O Mr. Doctor, neither Fat nor Lean in a Sallad.
_Scar._ Neither Oyl, nor Vinegar.
_Har._ Oh! I"ll fetch you that presently.
[Harlequin _fetches a Chamber-pot of p.i.s.s, and a Lamp of Oyl, and pours on the Sallad_.
_Scar._ O thy Sallad is nothing but Thistles and Netles; and thy Oyl stinks worse than _a.r.s.efet.i.to_.
_Har._ Bread and Wine be our Fare. Ha! the Bread"s alive. [_Bread stirs._
_Scar._ Or the Devil"s in"t. Hey! again. [_Bread sinks._
_Har._ My Belly"s as empty as a Beggar"s Purse.
_Scar._ And mine as full of Wind as a Trumpeter"s Cheeks.
[_Table sinks, and Flash of Lightning._
But since we can"t Eat, let"s Drink: Come, here"s Dr. _Faustus_"s Health.
_Har._ Ay, come; G.o.d bless Dr. _Faustus_.
[_Bottles fly up, and the Table sinks._
_Scar._ What all gone: Here"s a Banquet stole away like a City Feast.
[_Musick._
_Har._ Ha! here"s Musick to delight us.
[_Two Chairs rises._ Harlequin _and_ Scaramouche _sits down, and are caught fast_.
_Scar._ Ha! the Devil. We are lock"d in.
_Har._ As fast as a Counter Rat.
_Enter several Devils, who black_ Harlequin _and_ Scaramouche"s _Faces, and then squirt Milk upon them_. _After the Dance they both sink._