POL. By th' mass, 'tis true, I have seen the knave paint grief In such a lively colour, that for false And acted passion he has drawn true tears From the spectators. Ladies in the boxes Kept time with sighs and tears to his sad accents, As he had truly been the man he seem'd. Well, then, I'll ne'er despair: but tell me thou-- Thou that hast still been privy to my bosom, How will this project take? ROS. Rarely, my lord, Even now, methinks, I see your lordship's house Haunted with suitors of the noblest rank, And my young lady, your supposed heir, Tir'd more with wooing than the Grecian queen[417] In the long absence of her wandering lord. There's not a ruinous nobility In all this kingdom, but conceives a hope Now to rebuild his fortunes on this match. POL. Those are not they I look for: no, my nets Are spread for other game; the rich and greedy-- Those that have wealth enough, yet gape for more-- They are for me. ROS. Others will come, my lord: All sorts of fish will press upon your nets; Then in your lordship's wisdom it must lie To cull the great ones, and reject the fry. POL. Nay, fear not that; there's none shall have access To see my daughter, or to speak to her, But such as I approve, and aim to catch. ROS. The jest will be, my lord, when you shall see, How your aspiring suitors will put on The face of greatness, and belie their fortunes, Consume themselves in show, wasting (like merchants) Their present wealth in rigging a fair ship For some ill-ventur'd voyage that undoes 'em. Here comes a youth with letters from the court, Bought of some favourite, at such a price As will for ever sink him; yet, alas! All's to no purpose, he must lose the prize. POL. 'Twill feed me fat with sport, that it shall make, Besides the large adventures it brings home Unto my daughter. How now! _Enter_ SERVANT. SER. My lord, Count Virro is come to see you. POL. Conduct him in. So, so, it takes already! See, Roscio, see, this is the very man My project aim'd at, the rich count that knows No end of his large wealth, yet gapes for more. There was no other loadstone could attract His iron heart; for could beauty have mov'd him, Nature has been no niggard to my girl. But I must to my grief; here comes the count. _Enter_ COUNT VIRRO. VIR. Is your lord asleep? ROS. No, sir, I think not. My lord, Count Virro! VIR. How do you, sir? POL. I do entreat your lordship pardon me: Grief and some want of sleep have made me at This time unmannerly, not fit to entertain Guests of your worth. VIR. Alas, sir! I know your grief. ROS. 'Twas that that fetch'd you hither. [_Aside._