Trice. How's this! how's this!
Lov. And though for this time I put up, because I am a winner— [Snatches the gold.
Trice. What a devil do'st thou put up? Not my gold, I hope, Jack?
Lov. By your favour, but I do; and 'twas won fairly: a sixieme, and fourteen by aces, by your own confession,—What a pox, we don't make childrens' play, I hope?
Trice. Well, remember this, Jack; from this hour I forswear playing with you when I am alone; what, will you bate me nothing on't?
Lov. Not a farthing, Justice; I'll be judged by you; if I had lost, you would have taken every piece on't: What I win, I win—and there's an end.
Enter Servant.
Serv. Sir, these people stay without, and will not be answered.
Trice. Well, what's their business?
Serv. Nay, no great matter; only a fellow for getting a wench with child.