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