SCENE VIII.

Isabel, _to them_.

_Mart._ Daughter, fly from this wicked Place; the Breath of Sin has infected it, and two Gallons of Holy Water will scarce purify the Air.

_Isa._ Oh! Heavens! What's the Matter, Father?

_Old Lar._ Why the Matter is, this Gentleman in Black here, for Reasons best known to himself, and another Gentleman in Black, has thought fit to forbid your Marriage.

_Isa._ What the Saints please.

_Old Lar._ Hoity-toity! What, has he fill'd your Head with the Saints too?

_Isa._ Oh Sir! I have had such Dreams.

_Old Lar._ Dreams! Ha, ha, ha: The Devil's in it, if a Girl just going to be married should not have Dreams. But they were Dreams the Saints had nothing to do with, I warrant you.

_Isa._ Such Visions of Saints appearing to me, and advising me to a Nunnery.

_Old Lar._ Impossible! Impossible! for I have had Visions too: I have been order'd by half a Dozen Saints to see you married with the utmost Expedition; and a very honest Saint, whose Name I forget, came to me about an Hour ago, and swore heartily if you were not married within this Week, he'd lead you to Purgatory in a Fortnight.

_Mart._ Oh! grievous!

_Isa._ Can there be such Contradictions?

_Old Lar._ Pshaw! Pshaw! Yours was a Dream, and so to be understood backwards; Mine, a true Vision, therefore to be believ'd. Why, Child, I have been a famous Seer of Visions in my Time. Wou'd you believe it? While I was in the Army, there never was a Battle, but I saw it some time beforehand. I have had an intimate Familiarity with the Saints, I know them all: There is not one of them cou'd be capable of saying such a thing.

_Isa._ Oh! Sir, I saw, and heard, and must believe, for none but the Church can contradict our Senses.

_Old. Lar._ So, so! the Distemper's hereditary, I find: the Daughter is as full of the Church as the Father. Come away, Son, come away: I would not have thee marry into such a Family, I shou'd be Grand-father to a Race of greasy Priests. 'Sdeath! this Girl will be brought to bed of a Pope one Day or other.

_Isa._ 'Tis out, 'tis out.

_Mart._ Oh prodigious! That such a Saint shou'd prophesy Truth through those Lips, whence the Devil has been thundring so many Lyes.

_Old Lar._ What Truth, Sir, what Truth?

_Isa._ Oh! Sir, the Blessing you mentioned, has been promised me! I am to give a Pope to the World.

_Old Lar._ Are you so, Madam? He shall have no Blood of mine in him, I'm resolv'd I'll never ask Blessings of a Grandson. Come away, Jack, come a way, I say; let us leave the Devil's Son, and the Pope's Mother together.

_Yo. Lar._ Remember, my _Isabel_, I only live in the Hopes of seeing you mine.