Quar. Yes, he that would venture for’t, I assure him, might sink into her and be drown’d a week ere any friend he had could find where he were.
Winw. And then he would be a fortnight weighing up again.
Quar. ’Twere like falling into a whole shire of butter; they had need be a team of Dutchmen should draw him out.
Knock. Answer ’em, Urse: where’s thy Bartholomew wit now, Urse, thy Bartholomew wit?
Urs. Hang ’em, rotten, roguy cheaters, I hope to see them plagued one day (pox’d they are already, I am sure) with lean playhouse poultry, that has the bony rump, sticking out like the ace of spades, or the point of a partizan, that every rib of them is like the tooth of a saw; and will so grate them with their hips and shoulders, as (take ’em altogether) they were as good lie with a hurdle.
Quar. Out upon her, how she drips! she’s able to give a man the sweating sickness with looking on her.
Urs. Marry look off, with a patch on your face, and a dozen in your breech, though they be of scarlet, sir. I have seen as fine outsides as either of yours, bring lousy linings to the brokers, ere now, twice a week.
Quar. Do you think there may be a fine new cucking-stool in the Fair, to be purchased; one large enough, I mean? I know there is a pond of capacity for her.
Urs. For your mother, you rascal! Out, you rogue, you hedge-bird, you pimp, you pannier-man’s bastard, you!