Tib Talk. Ah, each finger is a thumb to-day, me-think:
I care not to let all alone, choose it swim or sink.
They sing the fourth time.
Pipe, merry Annot, &c.
Trilla, Trilla, Trillary.
When, Tibbet? when, Annot? when, Margery?
I will not,—I can not,—no more can I.
Then give we all over, and there let it lie!
[Let her cast down her work.
Tib. Talk. There it lieth! the worst is but a curried coat.