Yearly with old saint Bartle!
The drunkards they are wading,
The punks and chapmen trading;
Who’d see the Fair without his lading?
Buy any ballads, new ballads?
Enter URSULA, from her Booth.
Urs. Fie upon’t: who would wear out their youth and prime thus, in roasting of pigs, that had any cooler vocation? hell’s a kind of cold cellar to’t, a very fine vault, o’ my conscience!—What, Mooncalf!
Moon. [within.] Here, mistress.
Night. How now, Ursula? in a heat, in a heat?