Jourd. Oh! Heavens! Musick!
Old Lar. Ay, ay, Groans, Groans, a fine Consort of Groans, you would think your self at an Opera, if it were not for the great Heat of the Air, as I said before; some Spirits are shut up in Ovens, some are chain'd to Spits, some are scatter'd in Frying-pans—and I have taken up a Place for you on a Gridiron.
Jourd. Oh! I am scorch'd, I am scorch'd—For Pity's sake, Father, intercede with St. Francis for me: Compassionate my Case—
Old Lar. There is but one way, let me carry him the News of your Daughter's Marriage, that may perhaps appease him. Between you and I, St. Francis is a liquorish old Dog, and loves to set People to work to his Heart.
Jourd. She shall be married this Instant, the Saint must know it is none of my Fault: Had I rightly understood his Will, it had been long since performed—But well might I misinterpret him, when even the Church, when Father Martin fail'd.
Old Lar. I wou'd be very glad to know where I should find that same Father Martin. I have a small Commission to him relating to a Purgatory Affair. St. Francis has sentenced him to lie in a Frying-pan there, just six hundred Years, for his Amour with your Daughter.
Jourd. My Daughter!
Old Lar. Are you ignorant of it then? Did not you know that he had debauched your Daughter?
Jourd. Ignorant! oh! Heavens! no Wonder she is refused the Veil.
Old Lar. I thought you had known it. I'll shew you a Sight worse than Purgatory it self. You shall behold this Disgrace to the Church; a Sight shall make you shudder.