Sir Mart. Ay, who set you on, sirrah? This was a rogue that would cozen us both; he thought I did not know him: Down on your marrowbones, and confess the truth: Have you no tongue, you rascal?
Sir John. Sure 'tis some silenced minister: He grows so fat he cannot speak.
Land. Why, sir, if you would know, 'twas for your sake I did it.
Warn. For my master's sake! why, you impudent varlet, do you think to 'scape us with a lye?
Sir John. How was it for his sake?
Warn. 'Twas for his own, sir; he heard you were the occasion the lady lodged not at his house, and so he invented this lie; partly to revenge himself of you; and partly, I believe, in hope to get her once again when you were gone.
Sir John. Fetch me a cudgel, pr'ythee.
Land. O good sir! if you beat me, I shall run into oil immediately.
Warn. Hang him, rogue; he's below your anger: I'll maul him for you—the rogue's so big, I think 'twill ask two days to beat him all over.
[Beats him.
Land. O rogue! O villain, Warner! bid him hold, and I'll confess, sir.