Between the Coach-man and the Kitehin-maid.
Fair Goddess of the pottage pot, how done you do tzip morning?
In truth George, I find my self very hot.
Oh, I am glad that you begin to feel the heat which you make me suffer.
Why, what hurt have I done you? have I scratch'd you, or prickt you with any of my loose pins, or have I trod upon your corns? Truly Bess, you are in the right on't, for the nails of your allurements have scratch'd my mind, the pins of your features have prick'd me; and the foot of your disdain hath trod upon the toes of my perseverance; and besides all this, you have struck me to the heart.
With what good George.
With the miracles of your beauty.
Alas that cannot be, for I am blacker then the Crock in the Chimney.
Truly Bess, if thou art a Chimney Crock, thou oughtest not to be us'd in any place, but in the Chimneys of the Gods, where there is no fire made but that of Love. Oh that I were some Celestial Kettle that I might hang always over thee, that I might be never separated from thee!
George, You will never leave your jeers, but 'tis no matter, I have a back broad enough to bear'em. Truly Bess, I speak nothing but the truth; measure me according to the greatness of my affections, not by the smallness of my deserts; and though I am but a poor Coach-man, scorn me not, for I can tell you of Goddesses themselves, that have affected mortal men, perhaps meaner then my self.