Drawer. Your worship shall, sir.
W. Rash. Why, how now, Frank! what hast lost?
Spend. Fifteen pounds and upwards: is there never an honest fellow?
Amb. What, do you lack money, sir?
Spend. Yes, canst furnish me?
Amb. Upon a sufficient pawn, sir.
Spend. You know my shop; bid my man deliver you a piece of three-pile velvet, and let me have as much money as you dare adventure upon't.
Amb. You shall, sir.
Spend. A pox of this luck! it will not last [for] ever. Play, sir, I'll set you.
W. Rash. Frank, better fortune befall thee; and, gentlemen, I must take my leave, for I must leave you.