Warn. Why, he does not know 'twas me, I hope?
Rose. 'Tis all one for that.
Sir Mart. I have such a plot!—I care not, I will speak, an I were to be hanged for't. Shall I speak, dear Warner? let me now; it does so wamble within me, just like a clyster, i'faith la, and I can keep it no longer, for my heart.
Warn. Well, I am indulgent to you; out with it boldly, in the name of nonsense.
Sir Mart. We two will put on vizards, and with the help of my landlord, who shall be of the party, go a mumming there, and by some device of dancing, get my mistress away, unsuspected by them all.
Rose. What if this should hit now, when all your projects have failed, Warner?
Warn. Would I were hanged, if it be not somewhat probable: Nay, now I consider better on't—exceedingly probable; it must take, 'tis not in nature to be avoided.
Sir Mart. O must it so, sir! and who may you thank for't?
Warn. Now am I so mad he should be the author of this device! How the devil, sir, came you to stumble on't?
Sir Mart. Why should not my brains be as fruitful as yours, or any man's?