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.