MAID. Indeed, forsooth, mistress, he is such a sloven,
That nothing will sit handsome about him;
He had a pound of soap to scour his face,
And yet his brow looks like the chimney-stock.
MRS ART. He'll be a sloven still; maid, take this apron,
And bring me one of linen: quickly, maid.
MAID. I go, forsooth.
MRS ART. There was a curtsy! let me see't again;
Ay, that was well.—[Exit MAID.] I fear my guests will come
Ere we be ready. What a spite is this.
Within. Mistress!
MRS ART. What's the matter?
Within. Mistress, I pray, take Pipkin from the fire; We cannot keep his fingers from the roast.
MRS ART. Bid him come hither; what a knave is that!
Fie, fie, never out of the kitchen!
Still broiling by the fire!
Enter PIPKIN.
PIP. I hope you will not take Pipkin from the fire,
Till the broth be enough.