Thus equipp’d, said Ned, trick for trick, damn me, here goes.
V.
First Molly, the cook-maid, he took by the hand,
From her greasy palm, told her what fortune had plann’d,
She was soon to be married, each year have a brat,
“Indeed,” cried the cooky, “how can you tell that?”
“I’ll tell you the number,” said Ned, “let me see
The blue vein that’s low plac’d ’twixt the navel and knee,”
When she pull’d up her cloaths, Ned exclaim’d, “I declare
Your blue vein I can’t see, ’tis so cover’d with hair.”