Win. A prophane blacke thing with a beard, John.
Pure. O! resist it, Win the fight, it is the Tempter, the wicked Tempter, you may know it by the fleshly motion of Pig; be strong against it, and its foule temptations, in these assaults, whereby it broacheth flesh and blood, as it were, on the weaker side, and pray against its carnall provocations, good child, sweet child, pray.
John. Good mother, I pray you, that she may eate some Pigge, and her bellyfull too; and doe not you cast away your owne child, and perhaps one of mine, with your tale of the Tempter: how doe you, Win? Are you not sicke?
Win. Yes, a great deale John (uh, uh).
Pure. What shall we doe? call our zealous brother Busy hither, for his faithfull fortification in this charge of the adversary; childe, my dear childe, you shall eate Pigge; be comforted, my sweet childe.
Win. I,[79] but i' the Fayre, mother.
Pure. I meane i' the Fayre, if it can be any way made, or found lawfull; where is our brother Busy? Will hee not come? looke up, Child.
John. Presently, mother, as soone as he has cleans'd his beard. I found him fast by the teeth, i' the cold Turkey pye, i' th' cupbord, with a great white loafe on his left hand, and a glasse of Malmesey on his right.
Pure. Slander not the Brethren wicked one.