Mir. We have won immortal Fame now, if we leave 'em.
Pin. You have, but we have lost.
Mir. Pinac, thou art cozen'd;
I know they love ye; and to gain ye handsomly,
Not to be thought to yield, they would give millions;
Their Fathers willingness, that must needs shew ye.
Pin. If I thought so.
Mir. Ye shall be hang'd, ye Recreant,
Would ye turn Renegado now?
Bel. No let's away, Boys,
Out of the Air, and tumult of their Villanies;
Though I were married to that Grashopper,
And had her fast by th' legs I should think she would cozen me.
Enter a young Factor.
Fac. Monsieur Mirabel, I take it?
Mir. Y'are i'th' right, Sir.