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Enter Count, and enters by the opposite side of the Stage, and meets them.

Valt. O! what a jolly town for way-worn soldiers! Rich steaming pots, and smell of dainty fare, From every house salute you as you pass: Light feats and jugglers' tricks attract the eye; Frolick, and mirth, musick in ev'ry street; Whilst pretty damsels, in their best attire, Trip on in wanton groups, then look behind, To spy the fools a-gazing after them.

Fred. But short will be the season of our ease, For Basil is of flinty matter made, And cannot be allur'd— 'Faith Rosenberg, I would thou didst command us; Thou art his kinsman, of a rank as noble, Some years his elder too; how has it been That he should be preferr'd? I see not why.

Ros. Ah! but I see it, and allow it well; He is too much my pride to wake my envy.

Fred. Nay, Count, it is thy foolish admiration Which raises him to such superiour height; And truly thou hast so infected us, That I have felt at times an awe before him, I know not why. 'Tis cursed folly;