_Tayl._ Pray, good worthy Gentlemen, don't abuse me: indeed I'm an honest Man, and a good Workman, tho' I say it, that should not say it. _Sir John._ No Words, Sirrah, but attend your Fate. _Lord Rake._ Let me see what's in that Bundle. _Tayl._ An't please you, it is the Doctor of the Parish's Gown. _Lord Rake._ The Doctor's Gown!----Hark you, Knight, you won't stick at abusing the Clergy, will you? _Sir John._ No, I'm drunk, and I'll abuse any thing--but my Wife; and her I name--with Reverence. _Lord Rake._ Then you shall wear this Gown, whilst you charge the Watch; that tho' the Blows fall upon you, the Scandal may light upon the Church. _Sir John._ A generous Design----by all the Gods----give it me. [_Takes the Gown, and puts it on._ _Tayl._ O dear Gentlemen, I shall be quite undone, if you take the Gown. _Sir John._ Retire, Sirrah; and since you carry off your Skin--go home and be happy. _Tayl._ [_Pausing._] I think I had e'en as good follow the Gentleman's friendly Advice; for if I dispute any longer, who knows but the Whim may take him to case me? These Courtiers are fuller of Tricks than they are of Money; they'll sooner cut a Man's Throat, than pay his Bill. [_Exit ~Taylor~._ _Sir John._ So, how do you like my Shapes now? _Lord Rake._ This will do to a Miracle; he looks like a Bishop going to the Holy War. But to your Arms, Gentlemen, the Enemy appears. _Enter Constable and Watch._ _Watch._ Stand! Who goes there? Come before the Constable. _Sir John._ The Constable is a Rascal----and you are the Son of a Whore. _Watch._ A good civil Answer for a Parson, truly! _Constab._ Methinks, Sir, a Man of your Coat might set a better Example. _Sir John._ Sirrah, I'll make you know----there are Men of my Coat can set as bad Examples----as you can do, you Dog, you. [_Sir ~John~ strikes the Constable. They knock him down, disarm him, and seize him. Lord Rake, &c. run away._ _Constab._ So, we have secur'd the Parson, however. _Sir John._ Blood, and Blood----and Blood. _Watch._ Lord have mercy upon us! How the wicked Wretch raves of Blood! I'll warrant he has been murdering some body to-night. _Sir John._ Sirrah, there's nothing got by Murder but a Halter: My Talent lies towards Drunkenness and Simony. _Watch._ Why, that now was spoke like a Man of Parts, Neighbours; 'tis pity he shou'd be so disguised. _Sir John._ You lye----I'm not disguis'd; for I am drunk barefac'd. _Watch._ Look you there again--This is a mad Parson, Mr. _Constable_; I'll lay a Pot of Ale upon 's Head, he's a good Preacher. _Constab._ Come, Sir, out of respect to your Calling, I shan't put you into the Round-house; but we must secure you in our Drawing-room till Morning, that you may do no Mischief. So, come along.