_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._ _Enter_ FOIGARD. _Foig._ Shave you, noble friend. _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? _Aim._ That's enough. _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. _Enter_ ARCHER. _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._ _Aim._ I fancy, Archer, you have it. _Foig._ The devil hang you, joy----By fat acquaintance are you my cussen? _Arch._ O, de devil hang your shelf, joy; you know we were little boys togeder upon de school, and your foster moder's son was married upon my nurse's chister, joy, and so we are Irish cussens. _Foig._ De devil taake de relation! Vel, joy, and fat school was it? _Arch._ I think it vas--aay--'Twas Tipperary. _Foig._ Now, upon my shoul, joy, it was Kilkenny. _Aim._ That's enough for us--self confession--Come, sir, we must deliver you into the hands of the next magistrate. _Arch._ He sends you to gaol, you are tried next assizes, and away you go swing into purgatory. _Foig._ And is it sho wid you cussen?