Plume. Kite! [Tips him the wink, he returns it.] Pretty Mrs. Rose—you have—let me see—how many?
Rose. A dozen, sir, and they are richly worth a crown.
Bul. Come, Rouse; I sold fifty strake of barley to-day in half this time; but you will higgle and higgle for a penny more than the commodity is worth.
Rose. What's that to you, oaf? I can make as much out of a groat as you can out of fourpence, I'm sure—The gentleman bids fair, and when I meet with a chapman, I know how to make the best of him—And so, sir, I say for a crown-piece the bargain's yours.
Plume. Here's a guinea, my dear!
Rose. I can't change your money, sir.
Plume. Indeed, indeed, but you can—my lodging is hard by, chicken! and we'll make change there.
[Goes off, she follows him.
Kite. So, sir, as I was telling you, I have seen one of these hussars eat up a ravelin for his breakfast, and afterwards pick his teeth with a palisado.
Bul. Ay, you soldiers see very strange things; but pray, sir, what is a rabelin?