SCENE II.

_The Inn._

_Enter_ AIMWELL _and_ ARCHER _laughing_.

_Arch._ And the awkward kindness of the good motherly old gentlewoman----

_Aim._ And the coming easiness of the young one--'Sdeath, 'tis pity to deceive her.

_Arch._ Nay, if you adhere to those principles, stop where you are.

_Aim._ I can't stop; for I love her to distraction.

_Arch._ 'Sdeath, if you love her a hair's breadth beyond discretion, you must go no farther.

_Aim._ Well, well, any thing to deliver us from sauntering away our idle evenings at White's, Tom's, or Will's--But now----

_Arch._ Ay, now is the time to prevent all this--Strike while the iron is hot--The priest is the luckiest part of our adventure; he shall marry you, and pimp for me. But here comes the doctor; I shall be ready. [_Exit._

_Enter_ FOIGARD.

_Foig._ Shave you, noble friend.

_Aim._ O sir, your servant; Pray, doctor, may I crave your name?

_Foig._ Fat naam is upon me? My naam is Foigard, joy.

_Aim._ Foigard! a very good name for a clergyman; Pray, Doctor Foigard, were you ever in Ireland?

_Foig._ Ireland! No, joy:--Fat sort of plaace is dat shame Ireland? Dey say de people are catched dere when dey are young.

_Aim._ And some of them here, when they are old;--as for example--[_Takes_ FOIGARD _by the Shoulder_.] Sir, I arrest you as a traitor against the government; you are a subject of England, and this morning showed me a commission, by which you served as chaplain in the French army: This is death by our law, and your reverence must hang for't.

_Foig._ Upon my shoul, noble friend, dis is strange news you tell me, Fader Foigard a subject of England--de son of a Burgomaster of Brussels a subject of England, Ubooboo--

_Aim._ The son of a bog trotter in Ireland: sir, your tongue will condemn you before any bench in the kingdom.

_Foig._ And is my tongue all your evidensh, joy?

_Aim._ That's enough.

_Foig._ No, no, joy, for I will never spaake de English no more.

_Aim._ Sir, I have other evidence.--Here, Martin, you know this fellow.

_Enter_ ARCHER.

_Aim._ [_In a Brogue._] Shave you, my dear cussen, how does your health?

_Foig._ Ah! upon my shoul dere is my countryman and his brogue will hang mine. [_Aside._] _Mynhere, ick wet neat wat hey zacht, ick univirston ewe, neat, sacrament._

_Aim._ Altering your language won't do, sir, this fellow knows your person, and will swear to your face.

_Foig._ Faash! fey, is dere brogue upon my faash too?

_Arch._ Upon my shalvation dere ish, joy,----But, Cussen Mackshane, vill you not put a remembrance upon me?

_Foig._ Mackshane! by St. Patrick, dat is my naam shure enough. [_Aside._

_Aim._ I fancy, Archer, you have it.

_Foig._ The devil hang you, joy----By fat acquaintance are you my cussen?

_Arch._ O, de devil hang your shelf, joy; you know we were little boys togeder upon de school, and your foster moder's son was married upon my nurse's chister, joy, and so we are Irish cussens.

_Foig._ De devil taake de relation! Vel, joy, and fat school was it?

_Arch._ I think it vas--aay--'Twas Tipperary.

_Foig._ Now, upon my shoul, joy, it was Kilkenny.

_Aim._ That's enough for us--self confession--Come, sir, we must deliver you into the hands of the next magistrate.

_Arch._ He sends you to gaol, you are tried next assizes, and away you go swing into purgatory.

_Foig._ And is it sho wid you cussen?

_Arch._ It will be sho wid you, cussen, if you don't immediately confess the secret between you and Mrs. Gipsey--Lookye, sir, the gallows or the secret, take your choice.

_Foig._ The gallows! upon my shoul I hate that shame gallows, for it is a diseash dat is fatal to our family.--Vel den, there is nothing, shentlemens, but Mrs. Sullen would spaak wid the count in her chamber at midnight, and dere is no harm, joy, for I am to conduct the count to the plaash myself.

_Arch._ As I guessed.----Have you communicated the matter to the count?

_Foig._ I have not sheen him since.

_Arch._ Right again; why then, doctor;--you shall conduct me to the lady instead of the count.

_Foig._ Fat, my cussen to the lady! upon my shoul, gra, dat's too much upon the brogue.

_Arch._ Come, come, doctor, consider we have got a rope about your neck, and if you offer to squeak, we'll stop your windpipe, most certainly; we shall have another job for you in a day or two, I hope.

_Aim._ Here's company coming this way; let's into my chamber, and there concert our affairs further.

_Arch._ Come, my dear cussen, come along.

_Foig._ Arra, the devil taake our relashion. [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ BONIFACE, HOUNSLOW, _and_ BAGSHOT, _at one Door_, GIBBET _at the opposite_.

_Gib._ Well, gentlemen, 'tis a fine night for our enterprize.

_Houns._ Dark as hell.

_Bag._ And blows like the devil: our landlord here has shown us the window where we must break in, and tells us the plate stands in the wainscot cupboard in the parlour.

_Bon._ Ay, ay, Mr. Bagshot, as the saying is, knives and forks, cups and cans, tumblers and tankards.--There's one tankard, as the saying is, that's near upon as big as me: it was a present to the 'squire from his godmother, and smells of nutmeg and toast, like an East India ship.

_Houns._ Then you say we must divide at the stair-head.

_Bon._ Yes, Mr. Hounslow, as the saying is----at one end of the gallery lies my Lady Bountiful and her daughter, and at the other, Mrs. Sullen--as for the 'squire.----

_Gib._ He's safe enough; I have fairly entered him, and he's more than half seas over already--But such a parcel of scoundrels are got about him there, that, egad, I was ashamed to be seen in their company.

_Bon._ 'Tis now twelve, as the saying is--gentlemen, you must set out at one.

_Gib._ Hounslow, do you and Bagshot see our arms fixed, and I'll come to you presently.

_Houns. and Bag._ We will. [_Exeunt_ HOUNSLOW _and_ BAGSHOT.

_Gib._ Well, my dear Bonny, you assure me that Scrub is a coward.

_Bon._ A chicken, as the saying is--you'll have no creature to deal with but the ladies.

_Gib._ And I can assure you, friend, there's a great deal of address and good manners in robbing a lady: I am the most a gentleman that way that ever travelled the road.--But, my dear Bonny, this prize will be a galleon, a Vigo business----I warrant you, we shall bring off three or four thousand pounds.

_Bon._ In plate, jewels, and money, as the saying is, you may.

_Gib._ Why, then, Tyburn, I defy thee: I'll get up to town, sell off my horse and arms, buy myself some pretty employment in the law, and be as snug and as honest as e'er a long gown of them all.

_Bon._ And what think you, then, of my daughter Cherry for a wife?

_Gib._ Lookye, my dear Bonny, _Cherry is the goddess I adore_, as the song goes; but it is a maxim, that man and wife should never have it in their power to hang one another; for, if they should, the Lord have mercy upon them both. [_Exeunt._

ACT THE FIFTH.