_Mart._ Hum! Be in your Chamber this Evening at Eight; take care there be no Light in the Room, and perhaps the Spirit may pay you a second Visit.

_Isa._ I'll be sure to be punctual.

_Mart._ And pa.s.sive.

_Isa._ I'll obey you in every thing.

_Mart._ Senseless Oaf. But tho' I have lost the first Fruits by her extreme Folly, yet am I highly delighted with it; and if I do not make a notable use of it I am no Priest.

SCENE III.

Jourdain _solus_.

Oh! Purgatory! Purgatory! What wou'd I not give to escape thy Flames!

(methinks) I feel them already. Hark! what Noise is that?--Nothing--Ha!

what's that I see? Something with two Heads----What can all this portend?----What a poor miserable Wretch am I?

_Enter Servant._

_Serv._ Sir, a Friar below desires to speak with you.

_Jourd._ Why will you suffer a Man of Holy Order to wait a Moment at my Door? Bring him in.

Perhaps he is some Messenger of Comfort. But Oh! I rather fear the reverse: For what Comfort can a Sinner like me expect?

SCENE IV.

_Old_ Laroon _in a Friar's Habit_, Jourdain.

_Old Lar._ A Plague attend this House and all that are in it.

_Jourd._ Oh! Oh!

_Old Lar._ Art thou that miserable, sad, poor Son of a Wh.o.r.e, _Jourdain_?

_Jourd._ Alas! Alas!

_Old Lar._ If thou art he, I have a Message to thee from St. _Francis_.

The Saint gives his humble Service to you, and bid me tell you, You are one of the saddest Dogs that ever liv'd; for having disobey'd his Orders, and attempted to put your Daughter into a Nunnery: For which he has given me positive Orders to a.s.sure you, you shall lie in Purgatory five hundred thousand Years.

_Jourd._ Oh!

_Old Lar._ And I a.s.sure you it is a very warm sort of a Place; for I call'd there as I came along to take Lodgings for you.

_Jourd._ Oh! Heavens! is it possible! that you can have seen the dreadful Horrors of that Place?

_Old Lar._ Seen them! Ha, ha, ha, why, I have been there half a dozen times in a Day: Why, how far do you take it to be to Purgatory? Not above a Mile and half at farthest, and every Step of the way down Hill.

Seen them! ay, ay, I have seen them, and a pretty Sight they are too, a pretty tragical sort of a Sight; if it were not for the confounded Heat of the Air----then there is the prettiest Consort of Musick.

_Jourd._ Oh! Heavens! Musick!

_Old Lar._ Ay, ay, Groans, Groans, a fine Consort of Groans, you would think your self at an Opera, if it were not for the great Heat of the Air, as I said before; some Spirits are shut up in Ovens, some are chain'd to Spits, some are scatter'd in Frying-pans--and I have taken up a Place for you on a Gridiron.

_Jourd._ Oh! I am scorch'd, I am scorch'd--For Pity's sake, Father, intercede with St. _Francis_ for me: Compa.s.sionate my Case--

_Old Lar._ There is but one way, let me carry him the News of your Daughter's Marriage, that may perhaps appease him. Between you and I, St. _Francis_ is a liquorish old Dog, and loves to set People to work to his Heart.

_Jourd._ She shall be married this Instant, the Saint must know it is none of my Fault: Had I rightly understood his Will, it had been long since performed--But well might I misinterpret him, when even the Church, when Father _Martin_ fail'd.

_Old Lar._ I wou'd be very glad to know where I should find that same Father _Martin_. I have a small Commission to him relating to a Purgatory Affair. St. _Francis_ has sentenced him to lie in a Frying-pan there, just six hundred Years, for his Amour with your Daughter.

_Jourd._ My Daughter!

_Old Lar._ Are you ignorant of it then? Did not you know that he had debauched your Daughter?

_Jourd._ Ignorant! oh! Heavens! no Wonder she is refused the Veil.

_Old Lar._ I thought you had known it. I'll shew you a Sight worse than Purgatory it self. You shall behold this Disgrace to the Church; a Sight shall make you shudder.

_Jourd._ Is it possible a Priest should be such a Villain?

_Old Lar._ Nothing's impossible to the Church you know.

_Jourd._ And may I hope St. _Francis_ will be appeas'd.

_Old Lar._ Hum! There is a great Favourite of that Saint who lives in this Town, his Name is Monsieur _Laroon_. If you could get him to say half a Dozen Bead-Rolls for you, they might be of great Service.

_Jourd._ How! Can the Saint regard so loose a Liver?

_Old Lar._ Oh! St. _Francis_ loves an honest merry Fellow to his Soul.

And hearkee, I don't think it impossible for Mr. _Laroon_ to bring you acquainted with the Saint; for to my Knowledge, they very often crack a Bottle together.

_Jourd._ Can I believe it?

_Serv._ Father _Martin_ is below.

_Old Lar._ Son, behave civilly to him, nor mention a Word of what I have told you--that we may entrap him more securely.

SCENE V.

Martin, _to them_.

_Mart._ Peace be with my Son. Ha! a Friar here! I like not this, I will have no Partners in my Plunder. Save you, reverend Father.

_Old Lar._ _Tu quoque._