Warn. And did you perform all this, a'God's name? Could you do this wonderful miracle without giving your soul to the devil for his help?
Sir Mart. I tell thee, man, I did it; and it was done by the help of no devil, but this familiar of my own brain; how long would it have been ere thou couldst have thought of such a project? Martin said to his man, Who's the fool now?
Warn. Who's the fool! why, who uses to be the fool? he that ever was since I knew him, and ever will be so.
Sir Mart. What a pox! I think thou art grown envious; not one word in my commendation?
Warn. Faith, sir, my skill is too little to praise you as you deserve; but if you would have it according to my poor ability, you are one that had a knock in your cradle, a conceited lack-wit, a designing ass, a hair-brained fop, a confounded busy-brain, with an eternal windmill in it; this, in short, sir, is the contents of your panegyric.
Sir Mart. But what the devil have I done, to set you thus against me?
Warn. Only this, sir: I was the foolish rascally fellow that was with Moody, and your worship was he to whom I was to bring his daughter.
Sir Mart. But how could I know this? I am no witch.
Warn. No, I'll be sworn for you, you are no conjurer. Will you go, sir?
Sir Mart. Will you hear my justification?