Alph. Why, prethee why?
Mast. Ye are dog-mad: you perceive it not,
Very far mad: and whips will scant recover ye.
Alph. Ha! whips?
Mast. I whips, and sore whips, and ye were a Lord Sir,
If ye be stubborn here.
Alph. Whips? what am I grown?
Jul. O I could burst: hold, hold, hold, hold o' both ends,
How he looks, pray heaven, he be not mad indeed.
Alph. I do not perceive I am so; but if you think it,
Nor I'le be hangd if 't be so.
Mast. Do you see this Sir? [Irons brought in.
Down with that Devil in ye.
Alph. Indeed I am angry,
But I'le contain my self: O I could burst now,
And tear my self, but these rogues will torment me,
Mad in mine old days? make mine own afflictions?
Mast. What do you mutter Sir?