Lit. [gazing at the inscription.] This is fine verily. Here be the best pigs, and she does roast them as well as ever she did, the pig’s head says.
Knock. Excellent, excellent, mistress; with fire o’ juniper and rosemary branches! the oracle of the pig’s head, that, sir.
Pure. Son, were you not warn’d of the vanity of the eye? have you forgot the wholesome admonition so soon?
Lit. Good mother, how shall we find a pig, if we do not look about for’t: will it run off o’ the spit, into our mouths, think you, as in Lubberland, and cry, wee, wee!
Busy. No, but your mother, religiously-wise, conceiveth it may offer itself by other means to the sense, as by way of steam, which I think it doth here in this place—huh, huh—yes, it doth. [He scents after it like a hound.] And it were a sin of obstinacy, great obstinacy, high and horrible obstinacy, to decline or resist the good titillation of the famelic sense, which is the smell. Therefore be bold—huh, huh, huh—follow the scent: enter the tents of the unclean, for once, and satisfy your wife’s frailty. Let your frail wife be satisfied; your zealous mother, and my suffering self, will also be satisfied.
Lit. Come, Win, as good winny here as go farther, and see nothing.
Busy. We scape so much of the other vanities, by our early entering.
Pure. It is an edifying consideration.
Mrs. Lit. This is scurvy, that we must come into the Fair, and not look on’t.