Beat. Come away in triumph; the day's your own, madam.
Mask. I'll bear you off upon my shoulders, sir; we have broke their hearts.
Wild. Let her go first then; I'll stay, and keep the honour of the field.
Jac. I'll not retreat, if you stay till midnight.
Wild. Are you sure then we have done loving?
Jac. Yes, very sure; I think so.
Wild. 'Tis well you are so; for otherwise I feel my stomach a little maukish. I should have doubted another fit of love were coming up.
Jac. No, no; your inconstancy secures you enough for that.
Wild. That's it which makes me fear my own returning: Nothing vexes me, but that you should part with me so slightly, as though I were not worth your keeping. Well, 'tis a sign you never loved me.
Jac. 'Tis the least of your care whether I did or did not: It may be it had been more for the quiet of myself, if I—but 'tis no matter, I'll not give you that satisfaction.