Wid. I hope you will, sir: I was bred in Ireland, where the women begin the salutation.
Tim. I wonnot kiss truly.
Wid. Indeed you must.
Tim. Would my girdle may break if I do.[10]
Wid. I have a mind.
Tim. Niggers-noggers, I wonnot.
Blood. Nay, nay, now his great oath's pass'd, there's no talk on't.
I like him ne'er the worse; there's an old saw for't—
A kiss first, next the feeling sense,
Crack say the purse-strings, out fly the pence.
But he can talk, though: whose boy are you, Tim?