Lil. 'Twill make you surfeit, I am tender of you: y'have all y'are like to have.
And. And can this be earnest?
Mir. It seems so, and she honest.
Bri. Have I not thy promise, Lilly?
Lil. Yes, and I have performed enough to a man of your years, this is truth; and you shall find, Sir, you have kiss'd and tous'd me, handl'd my leg and foot; what would you more, Sir? As for the rest, it requires youth and strength, and the labour in an old man would breed Agues, Sciatica's, and Cramps: You shall not curse me for taking from you what you cannot spare, Sir. Be good unto your self, y'have ta'ne already all you can take with ease; you are past threshing, it is a work too boisterous for you, leave such drudgery to Andrew.
Mir. How she jeers him!
Lil. Let Andrew alone with his own tillage, he's tough, and can manure it.
Bri. Y'are a quean, a scoffing, jeering quean.
Lil. It may be so, but I'm sure I'll ne'r be yours.
Bri. Do not provoke me, if thou do'st I'll have my Farm again, and turn thee out a begging.