Enter Moody, with two cudgels.
Mood. Among half a score tough cudgels I had in my chamber, I have made choice of these two, as best able to hold out.
Mill. Alas! poor Warner must be beaten now, for all his wit; would I could bear it for him!
Warn. But to what end is all this preparation, sir?
Mood. In the first place, for your worship, and in the next, for this East-India apostle, that will needs be my son Anthony.
Warn. Why, d'ye think he is not?
Mood. No, thou wicked accomplice in his designs, I know he is not.
Warn. Who, I his accomplice? I beseech you, sir, what is it to me, if he should prove a counterfeit? I assure you he has cozened me in the first place.
Sir John. That's likely, i'faith, cozen his own servant!
Warn. As I hope for mercy, sir, I am an utter stranger to him; he took me up but yesterday, and told me the story, word for word, as he told it you.