Mask. Well, sir, I kiss your hand, in hope to wait on you another time.
Alon. Let us mend our pace, to get clear of him.
Theo. If you do not, he'll be with you again, like Atalanta in the fable, and make you drop another of your golden apples.
[Exeunt Alon. Theo. and Jacintha.
[Maskall whispers Beatrix the while.
Beat. How much good language is here thrown away, to make me betray my ladies?
Mask. If you will discover nothing of them, let me discourse with you a little.
Beat. As little as you please.
Mask. They are rich, I suppose?
Beat. Now you are talking of them again: But they are as rich, as they are fair.
Mask. Then they have the Indies: Well, but their names, my sweet mistress.
Beat. Sweet servant, their names are——