Busy. So, walk on in the middle way, fore-right, turn neither to the right hand nor to the left; let not your eyes be drawn aside with vanity, nor your ear with noises.
Quar. O, I know him by that start.
Leath. What do you lack, what do you buy, mistress? a fine hobby-horse, to make your son a tilter? a drum to make him a soldier? a fiddle to make him a reveller? what is’t you lack? little dogs for your daughters? or babies, male or female?
Busy. Look not toward them, hearken not; the place is Smithfield, or the field of smiths, the grove of hobby-horses and trinkets, the wares are the wares of devils, and the whole Fair is the shop of Satan: they are hooks and baits, very baits, that are hung out on every side, to catch you, and to hold you, as it were, by the gills, and by the nostrils, as the fisher doth; therefore you must not look nor turn toward them.—The heathen man could stop his ears with wax against the harlot of the sea; do you the like with your fingers against the bells of the beast.
Winw. What flashes come from him!
Quar. O, he has those of his oven; a notable hot baker, ’twas when he plied the peel; he is leading his flock into the Fair now.
Winw. Rather driving them to the pens: for he will let them look upon nothing.
Enter KNOCKEM and WHIT from URSULA’S booth.
Knock. Gentlewomen, the weather’s hot; whither walk you? have a care of your fine velvet caps, the Fair is dusty. Take a sweet delicate booth, with boughs, here in the way, and cool yourselves in the shade; you and your friends. The best pig and bottle-ale in the Fair, sir. Old Ursula is cook, there you may read; [points to the sign, a pig’s head, with a large writing under it.] the pig’s head speaks it. Poor soul, she has had a string-halt, the maryhinchco; but she’s prettily amended.
Whit. A delicate show-pig, little mistress, with shweet sauce, and crackling, like de bay-leaf i’ de fire, la! tou shalt ha’ de clean side o’ de table-clot, and di glass vash’d with phatersh of dame Annesh Cleare.