Old Laroon in a Friar's Habit, Jourdain.
Old Lar. A Plague attend this House and all that are in it.
Jourd. Oh! Oh!
Old Lar. Art thou that miserable, sad, poor Son of a Whore, Jourdain?
Jourd. Alas! Alas!
Old Lar. If thou art he, I have a Message to thee from St. Francis. The Saint gives his humble Service to you, and bid me tell you, You are one of the saddest Dogs that ever liv'd; for having disobey'd his Orders, and attempted to put your Daughter into a Nunnery: For which he has given me positive Orders to assure you, you shall lie in Purgatory five hundred thousand Years.
Jourd. Oh!
Old Lar. And I assure you it is a very warm sort of a Place; for I call'd there as I came along to take Lodgings for you.
Jourd. Oh! Heavens! is it possible! that you can have seen the dreadful Horrors of that Place?
Old Lar. Seen them! Ha, ha, ha, why, I have been there half a dozen times in a Day: Why, how far do you take it to be to Purgatory? Not above a Mile and half at farthest, and every Step of the way down Hill. Seen them! ay, ay, I have seen them, and a pretty Sight they are too, a pretty tragical sort of a Sight; if it were not for the confounded Heat of the Air——then there is the prettiest Consort of Musick.