_Enter_ WARNER. _Sir Mart._ Here he comes, in pudding-time, to resolve the question:--Come hither, you lying varlet, hold up your hand at the bar of justice, and answer me to what I shall demand. _Warn._ What-a-goodjer is the matter, sir? _Sir Mart._ Thou spawn of the old serpent, fruitful in nothing but in lies! _Warn._ A very fair beginning this. _Sir Mart._ Didst thou dare to cast thy venom upon such a saint as Mrs Millisent, to traduce her virtue, and say it was adulterate? _Warn._ Not guilty, my lord. _Sir Mart._ I told you so. _Sir John._ How, Mr Rascal! have you forgot what you said but now concerning Sir Martin and Mrs Millisent? I'll stop the lie down your throat, if you dare deny it. _Sir Mart._ Say you so! are you there again, i'faith? _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. _Sir John._ That's a little too much, sir, by your favour, to beat him in my presence. _Sir Mart._ That's a good one, i'faith; your presence shall hinder me from beating my own servant? _Warn._ O traitor to all sense and reason! he's going to discover that too. _Sir Mart._ An I had a mind to beat him to mummy, he's my own, I hope. _Sir John._ At present, I must tell you, he's mine, sir. _Sir Mart._ Hey-day! here's fine juggling! _Warn._ Stop yet, sir, you are just upon the brink of a precipice. [_Aside._ _Sir Mart._ What is't thou mean'st now?--O Lord! my mind misgives me, I have done some fault; but would I were hanged if I can find it out. [_Aside._ _Warn._ There's no making him understand me. _Sir Mart._ Pox on't, come what will, I'll not be faced down with a lie; I say, he is my man.