1 Mer. Not an hour, ye know the hazard. [Exeunt.
Gos. How soon my light's put out! hard hearted Bruges! Within thy Walls may never honest Merchant Venture his fortunes more: O my poor Wench too.
Enter Gerrard.
Ger. Good fortune, Master.
Gos. Thou mistak'st me, Clause, I am not worth thy Blessing.
Ger. Still a sad man!
Enter Higgen and Prigg, like Porters. No belief gentle Master? come bring it in then, And now believe your Beadsman.
Gos. Is this certain? Or dost thou work upon my troubled sense?
Ger. 'Tis gold, Sir, Take it and try it.
Gos. Certainly 'tis treasure; Can there be yet this Blessing?