The Old Debauchees. A Comedy Part 2

_Yo. Lar._ Oh! to what Happiness have those dear Words restor'd me. I am again my self: for while the Possession of thee is sure, tho' distant, there is in that dear Hope, more Transport than any other actual Enjoyment can afford.

_Isa._ Well adieu, and to cram you quite full with Hope (since you like the Food) I here promise you, that the Commands of all the Priests in _France_ shall not force me to marry another. That is, Sir, I will either marry you or die a Maid, and I have no violent Inclination to the latter, on the Word of a Virgin.

SCENE VII.

_Young_ Laroon _solus_.

Whether a violent Hatred to my Father, or an inordinate Love for Mischief, hath set the Priest on this Affair, I know not. Perhaps it is the former----for the old Gentleman hath the Happiness of being universally hated by every Priest in _Toulon_----Let a Man abuse a Physician, he makes another Physician his Friend, let him rail at a Lawyer, another will plead his Cause gratis; if he libel this Courtier, that Courtier receives him into his Bosom: but let him once attack a Hornet or a Priest, the whole Nest of Hornets, and the whole Regiment of Black-guards are sure to be upon him.

SCENE VIII.

_Old_ Laroon _laughing_, _Young_ Laroon.

_Yo. Lar._ You are merry, Sir.

_Old. Lar._ Merry, Sir! Ay, Sir! I am merry, Sir. Would you have your Father sad, you Rascal? Have you a mind to bury him in his Youth?

_Yo. Lar._ Pardon me, Sir, I rather wished to know the happy Occasion of your Mirth.

_Old Lar._ The Occasion of my Mirth, Sir, is the saddest Sight that ever Mortal beheld.

_Yo. Lar._ A very odd Occasion indeed.

_Old Lar._ Very odd truly. It is the Sight of an old honest Wh.o.r.emaster in a Fit of Despair, and a d.a.m.ned Rogue of a Priest riding him to the Devil.

_Yo. Lar._ Ay, Sir, but I have seen a more melancholy Sight.

_Old Lar._ Ha! what can that be?

_Yo. Lar._ A fine young Lady in a Fit of Love, and a Priest keeping her from her Lover.

_Old Lar._ How?

_Yo. Lar._ The Explanation of which is, that Father Martin hath put off our Match for a Week.

_Old. Lar._ Put off your Match with _Isabel_!

_Yo. Lar._ Even so, Sir.

_Old Lar._ Well I never have made a Hole in a Gown yet, I never have tapped a Priest: but if I don't let out some reverend Blood before the Sun sets, may I never See him rise again. I'll carbonade the Villain, I'll make a Ragout for the Devil's Supper of him.

_Yo. Lar._ Let me intreat you, Sir, to do nothing rashly, as long as I am safe in the Faith of my _Isabel_.

_Old Lar._ I tell you, Sirrah, no Man is safe in the Faith of a Mistress, no one is secure of a Woman till he is in Bed with her. Had there been any Security in the Faith of a Mistress, I had been at present married to half the Dutchesses in _France_. I no more rely on what a Woman says out of a Church, than on what a Priest says in it.

_Yo. Lar._ Pardon me, Sir: but I should have very little Appet.i.te to marry the Woman whom I had such an Opinion of.

_Old Lar._ You had an Opinion of! What Business have you to have any Opinion. Is it not enough that I have an Opinion of her, that is of her Fortune--But I suppose you are one of those romantick, whining c.o.xcombs, that are in Love with a Woman behind her Back: Sirrah, I have had two Women lawfully, and two thousand unlawfully, and never was in Love in my Life.

_Yo. Lar._ Well, Sir, then I am happy, that we both agree in the same Person; I like the Woman, and you her Fortune.

_Old. Lar._ Yes, you Dog, and I'd have you secure her as soon as you can: for if a greater Fortune should be found out in _Toulon_, I'd make you marry her--So go find out your Mistress, and stick close to her, and I'll go seek the Priest, whom, if I can find, I will stick close to with a Vengeance.

SCENE IX.

_Another Apartment._

Jourdain, Martin.

_Jourd._ Alas! Father, there is one Sin sticks by me more than any I have confessed to you. It is so enormous a one my Shame hath prevented me discovering it--I have often concealed my Crimes from my Confessor.

_Mart._ That is a d.a.m.nable Sin indeed. It seemeth to argue a Distrust of the Church, the greatest of all Crimes; a Sin I fear the Church cannot forgive.

_Jourd._ Oh! say not so, Father!

_Mart._ I should have said will not, or not without difficulty: for the Church can do all things.

_Jourd._ That is some Comfort again.

_Mart._ I hope, however, tho' you have not confessed them, you have not forgotten them; for they must be confessed before they can be forgiven.

_Jourd._ I hope I shall recollect them, they are a black Roll--I remember I once was the Occasion of ruining a Woman's Reputation by shewing a Letter from her.

_Mart._ If you had shewn it to the Priest it had been no Fault.

_Jourd._ Alas! Sir, I wrote the Letter to my self, and thus traduced the Innocent. I afterwards commanded a Company of Granadiers, at the taking of a Town, where I knocked a poor old Gentleman in the Head for the sake of his Money, and ravished his Daughter.

_Mart._ These are crying Sins indeed.

_Jourd._ At the same time I robbed a Jesuit of two Pistoles.

_Mart._ Oh! d.a.m.nable! Oh! execrable!

_Jourd._ Good Father, have Patience: I once borrowed five hundred Livres of an honest Citizen in Paris, and repay'd him by lying with his Wife: And what sits nearest my Heart, was forced to pay a young Cavalier the same Sum, by suffering him to lie with mine.

_Mart._ Oh!

_Jourd._ And yet what are these to what I have done since I commenced Merchant. What have I not done to get a Penny. I insured a Ship for a great Value, and then cast it away; I broke when I was worth a hundred thousand Livres, and went over to _London_. I settled there, renounced my Religion, and was made a Justice of Peace.

_Mart._ Oh! that Seat of Heresy and d.a.m.nation! that Wh.o.r.e of _Babylon_!

_Jourd._ With the Wh.o.r.es of _Babylon_ did I unite: I protected them from Justice: Gaming-houses and Baudy-houses did I license, nay, and frequent too; I never punished any Vice but Poverty: for Oh! I dread to name it: I once committed a Priest to _Newgate_ for picking Pockets.

_Mart._ Oh! monstrous! horrible! dreadful! I'll hear no more. Thou art d.a.m.n'd without Reprieve.

_Jourd._ Take Pity, Father, take Pity on a Penitent.