Rib. I do conceive you, sir.
De Vienne. Why, then, conceiving,
Once more, right welcome, Count. I lodge you here,
As my good friend—and Julia's friend—the friend
To all our city.—Tut, Count, love is boys' play;
A soldier has not time for't.—
Come, Count.——Within there, hoa! we need refreshment,
Which you have furnish'd.—Love? pish! love's a gew-gaw.
Nay, come, Count, come.
[Exit.