Sir Cau. Five and four—thirty—
[Draws the Hat to him.
Sir Feeb. Now if he wins it, I’ll swear he has a Fly indeed—’tis impossible without Doublets of sixes—
Gay, Now Fortune smile—and for the future frown. [Throws.
Sir Cau.—Hum—two sixes—
[Rises and looks dolefully round.
L. Ful. How now? what’s the matter you look so like an Ass, what have you lost?
Sir Cau. A Bauble—a Bauble—’tis not for what I’ve lost—but because
I have not won—
Sir Feeb. You look very simple, Sir—what think you of Cato now?
Sir Cau. A wise Man may have his failings—
L. Ful. What has my Husband lost?—
Sir Cau. Only a small parcel of Ware that lay dead upon my hands,
Sweet-heart.