Lop. What no man else could have done; the job, Sir, told him the secret, and then talk'd him into a liking on't.
Lor. 'Tis impossible; thou dost not tell me true.
Lop. Sir, I scorn to reap any thing from another man's labours, but if this poor piece of service carries any merit with it, you now know where to reward it.
Lor. Thou art not serious!
Lop. I am; or may hunger be my mess-mate.
Lor. And may famine be mine, if I don't reward thee for't, as thou deserv'st——Dead.
[Making a pass at him.
Lop. Have a care there [Leaping on one side.] What do you mean, Sir? I bar all surprise.
Lor. Traitor, is this the fruit of the trust I plac'd in thee, villain?