Knock. How now, Alice!
Alice. The poor common whores can have no traffic for the privy rich ones; your caps and hoods of velvet call away our customers, and lick the fat from us.
Urs. Peace, you foul ramping jade, you—
Alice. Od’s foot, you bawd in grease, are you talking?
Knock. Why, Alice, I say.
Alice. Thou sow of Smithfield, thou!
Urs. Thou tripe of Turnbull!
Knock. Cat-a-mountain vapours, ha!
Urs. You know where you were taw’d lately; both lash’d and slash’d you were in Bridewell.
Alice. Ay, by the same token you rid that week, and broke out the bottom of the cart, night-tub.