_Furet._ A weather! oh, fy, fy! not such a creature among them, I can assure you. The most christian king would not suffer such an impertinent scandalous animal, so much as at shew his head in his seraglio. ’Tis as easy to find there a pretty woman chaste, or hair in the palm of your hand, as an emasculated beast among the mitred hogs: for the _Dux Gregis_, _Virgil_ speaks of, we have one at the head of our prelates, who has all the qualities requisite for so great an honour, tho’ he has neither beard nor horns: and should I name him, you’d be of my opinion. _Scar._ Wou’d I recollect my memory, and their virtues, I cou’d guess within two or three; but pray save me that labour. _Furet._ Do you not remember a famous song you made in praise of a sick wanton goat. _Creque fait & defend l’archeveque de Roüen._ _Scar._ Oh, dear! oh, dear! the right reverend _Francis Harley_, archbishop of _Paris_! my most renowned friend! a worthy chief! _Furet._ The very same, and ’tis a precious jewel, both for body and soul. A hedgehog has not more bristles than this prelate has mistresses, and there’s not a stallion in _France_ that leaps oftner. _Scar._ You rejoice my heart Mons. _Furetiere_. He was, I remember, always at _Paris_, when archbishop of _Rouen_: no man fitter for that employment. To be free, if _Paris_ be the hell of hackney horses, ’tis the paradice of whore-masters and hackney-whores. I can guess at what he does now, by what he did formerly. Several ladies also of our neighbouring countries are witnesses of his prowess; but more especially some of the fair _English_ ladies; the luscious morsels of a lustful monarch. But on to the rest. _Furet._ I am willing to satisfy your curiosity, Mr. _Scarron_, but to run thro’ the whole herd, would be too tedious at present, tho’ they all deserve to be chronicled: so I will only, _en passant_, give you the history of those you have heard preach, both at _Paris_ and the court, with wonderful applause; and who, for their modesty and regular lives, had the reputation of saints, whilst they were only fathers of oratory. _Scar._ Take your own method, Mons. _l’Abbé_; but let me tell you one thing, by the way, this place is call’d the _wits corner_, but by some late guests, because of the smoak and liquor, the _wits Coffee-House_. Now you know the wits of all countries laugh at the clergy in their poems and plays; and that the clergy, to be reveng’d of them, and keep up their own reputation with the ignorant, call them atheists; therefore you may freely give a true description of them. All here are their enemies; and a priest would as soon venture his carcass in _Sweden_ as in this place; he dreads a poet, as much as dogs do a sow-gelder. _Furet._ Still a merry man, Mr. _Scarron_. But to return to your mitred hogs; do you remember father _le Bone_, and father _Mascron_. The first is now bishop of _Perigueux_, and the other bishop of _Agen_.