If only for the credit of your parishes,
Come, deal, deal, deal, or will you always starve?
Maire, the wife of Shemus, would not deal,
She starved—she lies in there with red wallflowers,
And candles stuck in bottles round her bed.
A WOMAN.
What price, now, will you give for mine?
FIRST MERCHANT.
Ay, ay,
Soft, handsome, and still young—not much, I think.