Gill Flurt, enrag’d cries t’other, Why ya dirt-
-ie piece of Impudence, ye ill-bred Thief.
I scorn your terms, good Mistris Thimble-mans wife.
Marry come up, cries t’other, pray forbear,
Surely your husband’s but a Scavenger,
Cries t’other then, and what are you I pray?
No Aldermans wife for all you are so gay.
Is it not you that to all Christenings frisk it?
And to save bread, most shamefully steal the bisket,
At which the other mad beyond all law,