You kiss'd poor me—
Perhaps you'll say—dear Wowski tell,
How can I live without ye?
[Exit Wowski.
Trudge. Who have we here?
Enter First Planter.
Plant. Hark'ee, young man! Is that young Indian of yours going to our market?
Trudge. Not she—she never went to market in all her life.
Plant. I mean, is she for our sale of slaves? Our black fair?
Trudge. A black fair, ha! ha! ha! You hold it on a brown green, I suppose.