Jac. Adieu, servant; be a good manager of your stock of love, that it may hold out your month; I am afraid you'll waste so much of it before to-morrow night, that you'll shine but with a quarter moon upon me.
Wild. It shall be a crescent.
[Exeunt Wild. and Jac. severally.
[Beatrix is going, and Maskall runs and stops her.
Mask. Pay your ransom; you are my prisoner.
Beat. What! do you fight after the French fashion; take towns before you declare a war?
Mask. I shall be glad to imitate them so far, to be in the middle of the country before you could resist me.
Beat. Well, what composition, monsieur?
Mask. Deliver up your lady's secret; what makes her so cruel to my master?
Beat. Which of my ladies, and which of your masters? For, I suppose, we are factors for both of them.
Mask. Your eldest lady, Theodosia.
Beat. How dare you press your mistress to an inconvenience?