Aldo. Know them!  I think I do.  His mother was an arch-deacon’s daughter; as honest a woman as ever broke bread:  she and I have been cater-cousins in our youth; we have tumbled together between a pair of sheets, i’faith.

Brain. An honest woman, and yet you two have tumbled together! those are inconsistent.

Aldo. No matter for that.

Mrs Brain. He blunders; I must help him. [Aside.] I warrant ’twas before marriage, that you were so great.

Aldo. Before George, and so it was:  for she had the prettiest black mole upon her left ancle, it does me good to think on’t!  His father was squire What-d’ye-call-him, of what-d’ye-call-em shire.  What think you, little Judith? do I know him now?

Jud. I suppose you may be mistaken:  my servant’s father is a knight of Hampshire.

Aldo. I meant of Hampshire.  But that I should forget he was a knight, when I got him knighted, at the king’s coming in!  Two fat bucks, I am sure he sent me.

Brain. And what’s his name?

Aldo. Nay, for that, you must excuse me; I must not disclose little Judith’s secrets.

Mrs Brain. All this while the poor gentleman is left in pain:  we must let him out in secret; for I believe the young fellow is so bashful, he would not willingly be seen.

Jud. The best way will be, for father Aldo to lend me the key of his door, which opens into my chamber; and so I can convey him out.

Aldo. [Giving her a key.] Do so, daughter.  Not a word of my familiarity with his mother, to prevent bloodshed betwixt us:  but I have her name down in my almanack, I warrant her.

Jud. What, kiss and tell, father Aldo? kiss and tell! [Exit.

Mrs Brain. I’ll go and pass an hour with Mrs Tricksy. [Exit.

  Enter LIMBERHAM.

Brain. What, the lusty lover Limberham!

  Enter WOODALL, at another door.

Aldo. O here’s a monsieur, new come over, and a fellow-lodger; I must endear you two to one another.

Brain. Sir, ’tis my extreme ambition to be better known to you; you come out of the country I adore.  And how does the dear Battist[8]?  I long for some of his new compositions in the last opera. A propos! I have had the most happy invention this morning, and a tune trouling in my head; I rise immediately in my night-gown and slippers, down I put the notes slap-dash, made words to them like lightning; and I warrant you have them at the circle in the evening.

Wood. All were complete, sir, if S. Andre would make steps to them.

Brain. Nay, thanks to my genius, that care’s over:  you shall see, you shall see.  But first the air. [Sings.] Is it not very fine?  Ha, messieurs!

Limb. The close of it is the most ravishing I ever heard!