Jac. To conclude with you, take back your oaths and protestations; they are never the worse for the wearing, I assure you: Therefore take them, spick and span new, for the use of your next mistress.
Mask. Beatrix, follow your leader; here's the six-penny whittle you gave me, with the mutton haft: I can spare it, for knives are of little use in Spain.
Beat. There's your scissars with the stinking brass chain to them: 'Tis well there was no love betwixt us; for they had been too dull to cut it.
Mask. There's the dandriff comb you lent me.
Beat. There's your ferret-ribbanding for garters.
Mask. I would never have come so near as to have taken them from you.
Beat. For your letter, I have it not about me; but upon reputation I'll burn it.
Mask. And for yours, I have already put it to a fitting employment.—Courage, sir; how goes the battle on your wing?
Wild. Just drawing off on both sides. Adieu, Spain.
Jac. Farewell, old England.