Warn. Pray pacify yourself, sir; 'twas a plot of my own devising.
[Aside.
Sir Mart. Leave off your winking and your pinking, with a hose-pox t'ye. I'll understand none of it; tell me in plain English the truth of the business; for an you were my own brother, you should pay for it: Belie my mistress! what a pox, d'ye think I have no sense of honour?
Warn. What the devil's the matter w'ye? Either be at quiet, or I'll resolve to take my heels, and begone.
Sir Mart. Stop thief, there! what, did you think to 'scape the hand of justice? [Lays hold on him.] The best on't is, sirrah, your heels are not altogether so nimble as your tongue.
[Beats him.
Warn. Help! Murder! Murder!
Sir Mart. Confess, you rogue, then.
Warn. Hold your hands, I think the devil's in you,—I tell you 'tis a device of mine.
Sir Mart. And have you no body to devise it on but my mistress, the very map of innocence?
Sir John. Moderate your anger, good Sir Martin.
Sir Mart. By your patience, sir, I'll chastise him abundantly.