Winw. Mother of the furies, I think, by her fire-brand.
Quar. Nay, she is too fat to be a fury, sure some walking sow of tallow!
Winw. An inspired vessel of kitchen stuff!
Quar. She’ll make excellent geer for the coach-makers here in Smithfield, to anoint wheels and axletrees with.
[She drinks this while.
Urs. Ay, ay, gamesters, mock a plain plump soft wench of the suburbs, do, because she’s juicy and wholesome; you must have your thin pinched ware, pent up in the compass of a dog-collar, (or ’twill not do) that looks like a long laced conger, set upright, and a green feather, like fennel in the joll on’t.
Knock. Well said, Urse, my good Urse! to ’em, Urse!
Quar. Is she your quagmire, Daniel Knockem? is this your bog?
Night. We shall have a quarrel presently.
Knock. How! bog! quagmire? foul vapours! humph!