Rasor. Aye, but not so hard, you Baggage, you.
Madam. Den he grow bold: She grow weak, he tro her down, il tombe dessu, le Diable assiste, il emport tout. [Rasor struggles with her, as if he would throw her down.] Stand off, Sirrah!
Rasor. You have set me a-fire, you Jade, you.
Madam. Den go to de River, and quench dy self.
Rasor. What an unnatural Harlot 'tis!
Madam. Rasor.
[Looking languishingly on him.
Rasor. Madamoiselle.
Madam. Dou no love me.
Rasor. Not love thee?—More than a Frenchman does Soup.