_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._