Qua. I like thy fear well; ’twill have better chance;
There’s nought more hateful than rank ignorance.
Cel. Come, gallants, the table’s spread; will you to dinner?
Qua. Yes; first a main at dice, and then we’ll eat.
Sim. Truly the best wits have the badd’st fortune at dice still.
Qua. Who’ll play? who’ll play?
Sim. Not I; in truth I have still exceeding bad fortune at dice.
Cel. Come, shall we in? In faith thou art sudden sad.
Doest fear the shadow of my long-dead lord? 381
Lav. Shadow! Ha! I cannot tell.
Time trieth all things: well, well, well!
Qua. Would I were Time, then. I thought ’twas for something that the old fornicator was bald behind. Go; pass on, pass on.
[Exeunt.