kiest
part of our adventure; he shall marry you, and
pimp for me.

_Aim_. But I should not like a woman that can be so
fond of a Frenchman.

_Arch_. Alas, sir! Necessity has no law. The lady may
be in distress; perhaps she has a confounded
husband, and her revenge may carry her farther
than her love. Egad, I have so good an opinion of
her, and of myself, that I begin to fancy strange
things: and we must say this for the honour of our
women, and indeed of ourselves, that they do stick
to their men as they do to their _Magna Charta_, If
the plot lies as I suspect, I must put on the
gentleman.--But here comes the doctor--I shall be
ready. [_Exit_.

[_Enter Foigard_.]

_Foi_. Sauve you, noble friend.

_Aim_. O sir, your servant! Pray, doctor, may I crave
your name? {50}

Foi, 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?
Foi, Ireland! no, joy. Fat sort of plaace is dat saam
Ireland? Dey say de people are catched dere when
dey qre young.

_Aim_. And some of 'em when they are old:--as for
example.--[_Takes Foigard by the shoulder_.] Sir, I
arrest you as a traitor against the government;
you're 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 it.

_Foi_. 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---- {68}

_Aim_. The son of a bog-trotter in Ireland! Sir, your
tongue will condemn you before any bench in the
kingdom.

_Foi_. And is my tongue all your evidensh, joy?

_Aim_. That's enough.

_Foi_. No, no, joy, for I vill never spake English no more.

_Aim_. Sir, I have other evidence.--Here, Martin!

_Re-enter Archer_.

You know this fellow?

_Arch_. [_In a brogue_.] Saave you, my dear cussen, how
does your health? {78}

_Foi_. [Aside.] Ah! upon my shoul dere is my countryman,
and his brogue will hang mine.--[_To Archer_.]
_Mynheer, Ick wet neat watt hey xacht, Ick universton
ewe neaty sacramant!_

_Aim_. Altering your language won't do, sir; this fellow
knows your person, and will swear to your face.

_Foi_. Faash! fey, is dere a brogue upon my faash too?

_Arch_. Upon my soulvation dere ish