Quar. Ha, ha, ha!
Urs. Do you sneer, you dog’s-head, you trendle-tail! you look as you were begotten a top of a cart in harvest time, when the whelp was hot and eager. Go, snuff after your brother’s bitch, mistress Commodity; that’s the livery you wear, ’twill be out at the elbows shortly. It’s time you went to’t for the t’other remnant.
Knock. Peace, Urse, peace, Urse;—they’ll kill the poor whale, and make oil of her. Pray thee, go in.
Urs. I’ll see them pox’d first, and piled, and double piled.
Winw. Let’s away, her language grows greasier than her pigs.
Urs. Does it so, snotty-nose? good lord! are you snivelling? You were engendered on a she-beggar in a barn, when the bald thrasher, your sire, was scarce warm.
Winw. Pray thee let’s go.
Quar. No, faith; I’ll stay the end of her now; I know she cannot last long: I find by her smiles she wanes apace.
Urs. Does she so? I’ll set you gone. Give me my pig-pan hither a little: I’ll scald you hence, an you will not go.
[Exit.