Enter a Tinker with a Cord, and Dorothy.
Tink. 'Tis [btter] cold; a plague upon these Rogues, how wary they are grown! not a door open now, but double barr'd; not a Window, but up with a case of wood like a spice box, and their locks unpickable, the very Smiths that were half [venture[r]s], drink penitent, single Ale, this is the Iron age, the Ballad sings of; well, I shall meet with some of our loose Linnen yet, good fellows must not starve; here's he shall shew God a mighties dog bolts, if this hold.
Dorothy. Faith thou art but too merciful, that's thy fault, thou art as sweet a Thief, that sin [excepted, as ever] suffer'd, that's a proud word, and I'll maintain it.
Tinck. Come, prethee let's shogg off, and browze an hour or two, there's Ale will make a Cat speak, at the harrow, we shall get nothing now, without we batter, 'tis grown too near morning, the Rogues sleep sober, and are watchful.
Dorit. We want a Boy extreamly for this function, kept under for a year, with milk, and knot-grass; in my time I have seen a boy do wonders; Robbin the red Tinker had a Boy, Rest his Soul, he suffer'd this time 4 years, for two Spoons, and a Pewter Candlestick, that sweet Man had a Boy, as I am Curstend Whore, would have run through a Cat hole, he would have boulted such a piece of Linen in an evening—
Tinck. Well, we will have a Boy, prethee lets go, I am vengeance cold I tell thee.
Dorothy. I'll be hang'd before I stir without some purchase, by these ten bones, I'll turn she-ape, and untile a house, but I'll have it, it may be I have to be hang'd, I cannot tell.
Enter Viola.
Tinck. Peace, you flead Whore, thou hast a mouth like a Bloodhound, here comes a night-shade.
Dorit. A Gentlewoman Whore, by this darkness I'll case her to the skin.
Tinck. Peace, I say.
Viola. What fear have I endur'd this dismal night!
And what disgrace, if I were seen and known!
In which this darkness onely is my friend,
That onely has undone me; a thousand curses
Light on my easie, foolish, childish love,
That durst so lightly lay a confidence
Upon a Man, so many being false;
My weariness, and weeping, makes me sleepy, I must lie down.
Tinck. What's this? a Prayer, or a Homily, or a Ballad of good councel? she has a Gown, I am sure.
Dor. Knock out her brains, and then shee'll nee'r bite.
Tinck. Yes, I will knock her, but not yet, you? woman?
Viol. For Gods sake what are you?
Tinck. One of the groomes of your wardrobe, come, uncase, uncase; byr Lady a good Kersey.
Vio. Pray do not hurt me, Sir.