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Show The Beaux Stratagem. 51 "! Aim. And fome of 'em when they're old;-as for Example. [i [Takes Foigard by the Shoulder. , Sir, I arreft you as a Traytor againft the Government; you're j&a Subject of England, and this Morning lhew'd m e a Com- "tmifTion, by which you ferv'd as_Chaplain in the French Ar-ttmy: This is Death by our Law, and your Reverence muft <:hang for't. Foig. U p o n m y Shoul, Noble Friend, dis is ftrange N e w s tyou tell me, Fader Foigard, a Subject of England, de Son of Ha Burgoma/ter oiBruffels, a Subject of England! Ubooboo- Aim. The Son of a Bog-trotter in Ireland; Sir, your Tongue If will condemn you before any Bench in the Kingdom. 1 Foig. And is m y Tongue all your Evidenfh, joy ? M Aim. That's enough. Foig. N o , no, Joy, for I vil never fpake Englifh no more. * Aim. Sir, I have other Evidence Here, Martin, you I know this Fellow. Enter Archer. lit Arch. [In a Brogue.] Saave you, m y dear CufTen, how do's ii your Health ? 1 -Foig. A h ! Upon my Shoul dere is m y Countryman, and his Brogue will hang mine. [Afide.] Mynheer, Ick wet neat watt hey zacht, Ick univerfion ewe neat, facramant. Aim. Altering your Language won't do, Sir, this Fellow i knows your Perfon, and will fwear to your Face. x Foig. Faace! Fey; is dear a Brogue upon m y Faafh, too? 1 Arch. Upon m y Soulvation dere ifh Joy But CufTen t 'Mackfhane vil you not put a Remembrance upon me. I Foig. Mackfhane I By St. Paatrick, dat ifh Naame fhure i enough. (Afide. Aim. I fancy, Archer, you have it. Foig. The Devil hang you, Joy By fat Acquaintance are you m y CufTen. ; Arch. O , de Devil hang your fhelf, Joy, you know we were little Boys togeder upon de School, and your Fofter- Moder's Son was marry'd upon m y Nurfe's Chifter, Joy, and : fo w e are Irifh CufTens. Foig. D e Devil taake de Relation! Vel, Joy, and fat School was it ? Arch. I tinks it vas Aay 'Twas Tipperary. Foig. N o , no, Joy; it vas Kilkenny. Aim. That's enough for us - Self-Confeffion-Come, Sir, w e muft deliver you into the hands of the next Magiftrate. Arch. He fends you to Gaol, you're try'd next Affizes, and away you go fwing into PurgaIt oir y, Foig, |