_Beat._ [_Running in_.] Madam, come away; I hear company in the garden.
_Jac._ Yes, to cry out a rape, if you follow me.
_Wild._ However, I am glad you have left your treasure behind you: Farewell, fairy!
_Jac._ Farewell, changeling!--Come, Beatrix. [_Exeunt Women._
_Mask._ Do you know how you came by this money, sir? You think, I warrant, that it came by fortune.
_Wild._ No, sirrah, I know it came by my own industry. Did not I come out diligently to meet this gold, in the very way it was to come? What could fate do less for me? They are such thoughtless, and undesigning rogues as you, that make a drudge of poor Providence, and set it a shifting for you. Give me a brave fellow like myself, that, if you throw him down into the world, lights every where upon his legs, and helps himself without being beholden to fate, that is the hospital of fools.
_Mask._ But, after all your jollity, what think you if it was Jacintha that gave it you in this disguise? I am sure I heard her call Beatrix as she went away.
_Wild._ Umh! thou awaken'st a most villainous apprehension in me! methought, indeed, I knew the voice: but the face was such an evidence against it! if it were so, she is lost for ever.
_Wild._ Now could I cut my throat for madness.
_Mask._ Now could I break my neck for despair, if I could find a precipice absolutely to my liking.
_Wild._ 'Tis in vain to consider on't. There's but one way; go you, Maskall, and find her out, and invent some excuse for me, and be sure to beg leave I may come and wait upon her with the gold, before she sleeps.
_Mask._ In the mean time you'll be thinking at your lodging.
_Wild._ But make haste then to relieve me; for I think over all my thoughts in half an hour. [_Exit_ MASK.
_Wild._ [_Solus_.] Hang it! now I think on't, I shall be but melancholic at my lodging; I'll go pass my hour at the gaming-house, and make use of this money while I have tools, to win more to it. Stay, let me see,--I have the box and throw. My Don he sets me ten pistoles; I nick him: Ten more, I sweep them too. Now, in all reason, he is nettled, and sets me twenty: I win them too. Now he kindles, and butters me with forty. They are all my own: In fine, he is vehement, and bleeds on to fourscore or an hundred; and I, not willing to tempt fortune, come away a moderate winner of two hundred pistoles.