only whether I can be obedient to my Confessor, and guess the rest.
Yo. Lar. Can he have enjoined you to be perjured, by Heaven it would be sinful to obey him.
Isa. Be satisfied, if I prevail with my self to obey him in this Week's Delay, I will carry my Obedience no farther.
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.
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.
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 Whoremaster in a Fit of Despair, and a damned 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.
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