[Chucks her under the Chin.
Rose. As ever you tasted in your life, sir.
Plume. Come, I must examine your basket to the bottom, my dear!
Rose. Nay, for that matter, put in your hand; feel, sir; I warrant my ware is as good as any in the market.
Plume. And I'll buy it all, child, were it ten times more.
Rose. Sir, I can furnish you.
Plume. Come, then, we won't quarrel about the price; they're fine birds.—Pray, what's your name, pretty creature!
Rose. Rose, sir. My father is a farmer within three short miles o' the town: we keep this market; I sell chickens, eggs, and butter, and my brother Bullock there sells corn.
Bul. Come, sister, haste—we shall be late home.
[Whistles about the Stage.