Isa. On my Conscience I should want neither; if the continual Sight of a Set of dirty Priests would not bring me to abhor Mankind, I dare swear nothing could.
SCENE II.
Old Laroon, Isabel, Beatrice.
Old Lar. Good-morrow, my little Wag-tail—my Grashopper, my Butterfly. Odso! you little Baggage, you look as full of——as full of Love and Sport and Wantonness——I wish I was a young Fellow again——Oh! that I was but five and twenty for thy sake. Where's my Boy? What, has not he been with you, has not he serenaded you?—Odsheart—I never let his Mother sleep for a Month before I married her.
Isa. Indeed!
Old Lar. No Madam, nor for a Month afterwards neither. The young Fellows of this Age are nothing, mere Butterflies, to those of ours——Odsheart I remember the Time, when I could have taken a Hop, Step, and Jump over the Steeple of Notre Dame.
Bea. I fancy the Sparks of your Age had Wings, Sir.
Old Lar. Wings, you little Baggage, no—but they had—they had Limbs, like Elephants, and as strong they were as Sampson, and as swift as——Why, I have my self run down a Stag in a fair Chace, and eat him afterwards for my Dinner. But come, where is my old Neighbour, my old Friend, my old Jourdain?
Isa. At his Devotions, I suppose, this is the Hour he generally employs in them.
Old Lar. This Hour! ay, all Hours. I dare swear he spends more Time in them, than all the Priests in Toulon. Well, give him his due, he was wicked as long as he could be so, and when he could sin no longer, why he began to repent that he had sinned at all. Oh! there is nothing so devout as an old Whoremaster.