Urs. My chair, you false faucet you; and my morning’s draught, quickly, a bottle of ale, to quench me, rascal. I am all fire and fat, Nightingale, I shall e’en melt away to the first woman, a rib again, I am afraid. I do water the ground in knots, as I go, like a great garden pot; you may follow me by the SS. I make.
Night. Alas, good Urse! was Zekiel here this morning?
Urs. Zekiel? what Zekiel?
Night. Zekiel Edgworth, the civil cutpurse, you know him well enough; he that talks bawdy to you still: I call him my secretary.
Urs. He promised to be here this morning, I remember.
Night. When he comes, bid him stay: I’ll be back again presently.
Urs. Best take your morning dew in your belly, Nightingale.—
Enter MOONCALF, with the Chair.
Come, sir, set it here, did not I bid you should get a chair let out o’ the sides for me, that my hips might play? you’ll never think of any thing, till your dame be rump-gall’d; ’tis well, changeling: because it can take in your grasshopper’s thighs, you care for no more. Now, you look as you had been in the corner of the booth, fleaing your breech with a candle’s end, and set fire o’ the Fair. Fill, Stote, fill.
Over. This pig-woman do I know, and I will put her in, for my second enormity; she hath been before me, punk, pinnace, and bawd, any time these two and twenty years upon record in the Pie-poudres. [Aside.