MOUSE.
Hold him, hold him, hold him! Here’s a stir indeed; here came hue after the crier, and I was set close at mother Nip’s house, and there I called for three pots of ale, as ’tis the manner of us courtiers. Now, sirrah, I had taken the maidenhead of two of them—now as I was lifting up the third to my mouth, there came: Hold him, hold him! Now I could not tell whom to catch hold on, but I am sure I caught one, perchance a may be in this pot. Well, I’ll see. Mass, I cannot see him yet; well, I’ll look a little further. Mass, he is a little slave, if a be here; why, here’s nobody. All this goes well yet; but if the old trot should come for her pot?—ay, marry, there’s the matter, but I care not, I’ll face her out, and call her old rusty, dusty, musty, fusty, crusty firebrand, and worse than all that, and so face her out of her pot. But soft! here she comes.
Enter the Old Woman.
OLD WOMAN.
Come on, you knave; where’s my pot, you knave?
MOUSE.
Go look for your pot; come not to me for your pot, ’twere good for you.
OLD WOMAN.
Thou liest, thou knave, thou hast my pot.
MOUSE.
You lie, an you say it. I—your pot? I know what I’ll say.
OLD WOMAN.
Why, what wilt thou say?
MOUSE.
But say I have him, an thou dar’st.
OLD WOMAN.
Why, thou knave, thou hast not only my pot, but my drink unpaid for.
MOUSE.
You lie like an old—I will not say whore.