_Moth._ Your pardon, Sir! ay! ay! in an honourable affair, you know you may command me----but pray where is this blessed wife and husband to be had? Count _Bas._ Now have a little patience----You must know then, this country Knight, and his lady, bring up, in the coach with them, their eldest son and a daughter, to teach them to----wash their faces, and turn their toes out. _Moth._ Good! Count _Bas._ The son is an unlick'd whelp, about sixteen, just taken from school; and begins to hanker after every wench in the family: The daughter much of the same age, a pert, forward hussy, who having eight thousand pound left her by an old doating grandmother, seems to have a devilish mind to be doing in her way too. _Moth._ And your design is to put her into business for life? Count _Bas._ Look you, in short, Mrs. _Motherly_, we gentlemen whose occasional chariots roll, only, upon the four aces, are liable sometimes you know, to have a wheel out of order: Which, I confess, is so much my case at present, that my dapple greys are reduced to a pair of ambling chairmen: Now, if with your assistance, I can whip up this young jade into a hackney-coach, I may chance, in a day or two after, to carry her in my own chariot _en famille_, to an opera. Now what do you say to me? _Moth._ Why, I shall not sleep--for thinking of it. But how will you prevent the family's smoaking your design? Count _Bas._ By renewing my addresses to the mother. _Moth._ And how will the daughter like that, think you? Count _Bas._ Very well----whilst it covers her own affair. _Moth._ That's true----it must do----but, as you say, one for t'other, Sir, I stick to that--if you don't do my niece's business with the son, I'll blow you with the daughter, depend upon't. Count _Bas._ It's a bett--pay as we go, I tell you, and the five hundred shall be staked in a third hand. _Moth._ That's honest----But here comes my niece! shall we let her into the secret? Count _Bas._ Time enough! may be I may touch upon it. _Enter ~Myrtilla~._ _Moth._ So, niece, are all the rooms done out, and the beds sheeted? _Myr._ Yes, Madam, but Mr. _Moody_ tells us the lady always burns wax, in her own chamber, and we have none in the house. _Moth._ Odso! then I must beg your pardon, Count; this is a busy time, you know. [_Exit Mrs. ~Motherly~._ Count _Bas._ _Myrtilla_! how dost do, child? _Myr._ As well as a losing gamester can. Count _Bas._ Why, what have you lost? _Myr._ What I shall never recover; and what's worse, you that have won it, don't seem to be much the better for't. Count _Bas._ Why child, dost thou ever see any body overjoyed for winning a deep stake, six months after 'tis over? _Myr._ Would I had never play'd for it! Count _Bas._ Psha! Hang these melancholy thoughts; we may be friends still. _Myr._ Dull ones. Count _Bas._ Useful ones perhaps----suppose I should help thee to a good husband?