Sir Mart. Will you let me damn my soul?
Warn. At your pleasure, as the devil and you can agree about it.
Sir Mart. D'ye see, the point's ready? Will you do nothing to save my life?
Warn. Not in the least.
Sir Mart. Farewell, hard-hearted Warner.
Warn. Adieu, soft-headed Sir Martin.
Sir Mart. Is it possible?
Warn. Why don't you despatch, sir? why all these preambles?
Sir Mart. I'll see thee hanged first: I know thou wouldst have me killed, to get my clothes.
Warn. I knew it was but a copy of your countenance; people in this age are not so apt to kill themselves.