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?