_Foig._ Ah, Mrs. Gipsey, upon my shoul, now, gra, his complainings would mollify the marrow in your bones, and move the bowels of your commiseration; he veeps, and he dances, and he fistles, and he swears, and he laughs, and he stamps, and he sings: in conclusion, joy, he's afflicted, _à la François_, and a stranger, would not know whider to cry or to laugh with him. _Gip._ What would you have me do, doctor? _Foig._ Nothing, joy, but only hide the count in Mrs. Sullen's closet, when it is dark. _Gip._ Nothing! Is that nothing? it would be both a sin and a shame, doctor. _Foig._ Here is twenty Louis d'ors, joy, for your shame; and I will give you an absolution for the shin. _Gip._ But won't that money look like a bribe? _Foig._ Dat is according as you shall take it--If you receive the money before hand, 'twill be _logicè_, a bribe; but if you stay till afterwards, 'twill be only a gratification. _Gip._ Well, doctor, I'll take it _logicè_----But what must I do with my conscience, sir? _Foig._ Leave dat wid me, joy; I am your priest, gra; and your conscience is under my hands. _Gip._ But should I put the count into the closet-- _Foig._ Vell, is dere any shin for a man's being in a closhet? one may go to prayers in a closhet. _Gip._ But if the lady should come into her chamber and go to bed? _Foig._ Vel, and is dere any shin in going to bed, joy? _Gip._ Ah, but if the parties should meet, doctor? _Foig._ Vel den----the parties must be responsible.--Do you begone after putting the count in the closhet; and leave the shins wid themselves--I will come with the count to instruct you in your chamber. _Gip._ Well, doctor, your religion is so pure, that I'm resolved to die a martyr to't----Here's the key of the garden door; come in the back way, when 'tis late--I'll be ready to receive you; but don't so much as whisper, only take hold of my hand; I'll lead you, and do you lead the count, and follow me. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ SCRUB. _Scrub._ What witchcraft now have these two imps of the devil been a-hatching here?--There's twenty Louis d'ors! I heard that, and saw the purse: but I must give room to my betters. [_Exit._ _Enter_ AIMWELL, _leading_ DORINDA, _and making love in dumb Show_; MRS. SULLEN, _and_ ARCHER. _Mrs. Sul._ Pray, sir, [_To_ ARCHER.] how d'ye like that piece? _Arch._ O, 'tis Leda--You find, madam, how Jupiter came disguised to make love-- _Mrs. Sul._ Pray, sir, what head is that in the corner, there? _Arch._ O, madam, 'tis poor Ovid in his exile. _Mrs. Sul._ What was he banished for? _Arch._ His ambitious love, madam. [_Bowing._] His misfortune touches me. _Mrs. Sul._ Was he successful in his amours? _Arch._ There he has left us in the dark--He was too much a gentleman to tell. _Mrs. Sul._ If he were secret, I pity him. _Arch._ And if he were successful I envy him. _Mrs. Sul._ How d'ye like that Venus over the chimney?