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ACT. III. (Book 3)
FY Mastres fy, geod feith y'ar mickle oout; I ga hum noought bet convenable stooff.
Y'are a Rascall, a Scotch Horseleech, a Doctor, a Dolt∣head: Oh the madness of the men of these times; if any of them be but a little out of temper, none can set them right but a Scotch Doctor forsooth, as though all the English ones were fooles. But Sirrah, Sirrah, it is well known my husband
Hang you Rascall, my Husband was never troubled with whimsies in his head, nor never rail'd against his Superiours; he was ever a quiet man, and an honest man, and had the love of the whole Court, and so had I too. Many a good turn have the good Gen∣tlemen done me, which I must never expect now agen, so violent∣ly my Husband railes against the Government. But if he suffer for't, thou shalt not weare a Nose to thy face; a Nose on thy face said I: Nay if there bee a sign-post in all this Town I'l hang thee on't— Ah poor heart.
Here hee comes—See what a pickle you have put him in; My fingers itch to come at thy face, that ugly
A me saw shee's a Deele, and wull spell aw my Market gif I ser her noot lick him; thes gis o tha sem powder, whilke gif sha smell ta, wull mack her sa lick him as may be.