_Lop._ He knows your marriage. How the pest should that happen? Sir, 'tis impossible; that's all. _Lor._ I tell thee 'tis true; he knows every particular of it. _Lop._ He does!----Why then, Sir, all I can say is, that Satan and he are better acquainted than the devil and a good Christian ought to be. _Lor._ Which way he has discover'd it I can't tell, nor am I much concern'd to know, since beyond all my expectations, I find him perfectly easy at it, and ready to excuse my fault with better reasons than I can find to do it myself. _Lop._ Say you so?----I am very glad to hear that, then all's safe. [_Aside._ _Lor._ 'Tis unexpected good fortune; but it could never proceed purely from his own temper, there must have been pains taken with him to bring him to this calm; I'm sure I owe much to the bounty of some friend or other; I wish I knew where my obligation lay, that I might acknowledge it as I ought. _Lop._ Are you thereabout's, I'faith? Then sharp's the word; I'gad I'll own the thing, and receive his bounty for't. [_Aside._] Why, Sir----not that I pretend to make a merit o'the matter, for alas, I am but your poor hireling, and therefore bound in duty to render you all the service I can----But----'tis I have don't. _Lor._ What hast thou done? _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? [_Making another thrust at him._ _Lop._ Take heed, Sir; you'll do one a mischief before you're aware. _Lop._ What recompence can'st thou make me, wretch, for this piece of treachery? Thy sordid blood can't expiate the thousandth----But I'll have it however. [_Thrusts again._