Warn. Death is a bug-word; things are not brought to that extremity; I'll cast about to save all yet.
Enter Lady Dupe.
L. Dupe. O, Sir Martin! yonder has been such a stir within; Sir John, I fear, smokes your design, and by all means would have the old man remove his lodging; pray God, your man has not played false.
Warn. Like enough I have: I am coxcomb sufficient to do it; my master knows, that none but such a great calf as I could have done it, such an overgrown ass, a self-conceited idiot as I.
Sir Mart. Nay, Warner.
Warn. Pray, sir, let me alone: What is it to you if I rail upon myself? Now could I break my own logger-head.
Sir Mart. Nay, sweet Warner.
Warn. What a good master have I, and I to ruin him: O beast!
L. Dupe. Not to discourage you wholly, Sir Martin, this storm is partly over.
Sir Mart. As how, dear cousin?