CURD. But black-and-white ribbons are worn only at burials, never at weddings: and I would be loth my wedding-sheet should be my shroud, and my bed a grave. Therefore, pray, be gone, and come when I send for you. BUD. Sweet sugar-candy mistress, grant me one thing before you go. CURD. What is't? BUD. Give me leave to vouchsafe one kiss on those sweet silken parchment-lips. CURD. Take your farewell, you shall never kiss 'um again. [_Kisses her_, _and blacks her mouth_. BUD. Thanks, pudding-pie Nancy. [_Exit._ CURD. Faugh, how he stinks of smoke! Does he think I'll be his trull, and that he shall smutch my face thus with his charcoal nose? No, I'll see him burnt first! Out upon him, beggar, burnt-arse rogue, devil-tinker! I am afraid his ugly looks have soured my cream, and made all my cheese run to whey; but if he come to me again thus, I'll make him blue as well as black. _Enter_ HANNA JENNITING. JEN. Come, buy my pearmains, curious John apples, dainty pippins; come, who buys? who buys? CURD. O sister Hanna, I wanted you just now; here was a tinker had like to have run away with me in his budget; a copper-nosed rogue, brazen-faced rascal! JEN. But you were even with him? Nay, you are a whisket! I' faith, I see beards are infectious as well as scabbed lips. Salute your apron, and 'twill tell you who you kissed last. CURD. He has printed a kiss indeed. JEN. Was he a suitor? Did he woo you with posnets and skillets, and promise you a kettle next Bartholomew fair? And how did you answer him? Did you say, Fly, brass, the devil's a tinker? Or more mildly tell him you could not settle your affections on him? But come, look sprightly. Somebody will stare so long upon the bright sun of our beauties, till they are blinded with beams. Thou knowest, when my mother died, she left us, beside some stringed pence and a granam's groat, seven suitors, whereof all have forsaken us but Graftwell the gardener; and my mother indeed used to say that I was born to be a gardener's wife, as soon as ever I was taken out of her parsley-bed. But 'tis no matter; let 'um go. CURD. But I wonder, Hanna, that you, having been an apple-woman so long, cannot get a customer for yourself. You might go off for a queen-apple! Come along; the next chapman shall have us at an easy rate. I have fresh cheese, &c. JEN. Come, buy pippins. [_Exeunt crying._ SCENE III. _Enter_ DITTY, _a ballad-man_.