[Exit Ursula.
Over. Dost thou hear, boy? There’s for thy ale, and the remnant for thee.—Speak in thy faith of a faucet, now; is this goodly person before us here, this vapours, a knight of the knife?
Moon. What mean you by that, master Arthur?
Over. I mean a child of the horn-thumb, a babe of booty, boy, a cut-purse.
Moon. O Lord, sir! far from it. This is master Daniel Knockem Jordan: the ranger of Turnbull. He is a horse-courser, sir.
Over. Thy dainty dame, though, call’d him cut-purse.
Moon. Like enough, sir; she’ll do forty such things in an hour (an you listen to her) for her recreation, if the toy take her in the greasy kerchief: it makes her fat, you see; she battens with it.
Over. Here I might have been deceived now, and have put a fool’s blot upon myself, if I had not played an after game of discretion! [Aside.
Re-enter URSULA, dropping.
Knock. Alas, poor Urse! this is an ill season for thee.