LEATH. The Fair's pestilence dead methinks; people come not abroad to-day, whatever the matter is. Do you hear, sister Trash, lady of the basket? sit farther with your gingerbread progeny there, and hinder not the prospect of my shop, or I'll have it proclaimed in the Fair, what stuff they are made on. TRASH. Why, what stuff are they made on, brother Leatherhead? nothing but what's wholesome, I assure you. LEATH. Yes, stale bread, rotten eggs, musty ginger, and dead honey, you know. OVER. Ay! have I met with enormity so soon? [_Aside._ LEATH. I shall mar your market, old Joan. TRASH. Mar my market, thou too-proud pedlar! do thy worst, I defy thee, I, and thy stable of hobby-horses. I pay for my ground, as well as thou dost: an thou wrong'st me, for all thou art parcel-poet, and an inginer, I'll find a friend shall right me, and make a ballad of thee, and thy cattle all over. Are you puft up with the pride of your wares? your arsedine? LEATH. Go to, old Joan, I'll talk with you anon; and take you down too, afore justice Overdo: he is the man must charm you, I'll have you in the Pie-poudres. TRASH. Charm me! I'll meet thee face to face, afore his worship, when thou darest: and though I be a little crooked o' my body, I shall be found as upright in my dealing as any woman in Smithfield, I; charm me! OVER. I am glad to hear my name is their terror yet, this is doing of justice. [_Aside._] [_A number of people pass over the stage._ LEATH. What do you lack? what is't you buy? what do you lack? rattles, drums, halberts, horses, babies o' the best, fiddles of the finest? _Enter COSTARD-MONGER, followed by NIGHTINGALE._ COST. Buy any pears, pears, fine, very fine pears! TRASH. Buy any gingerbread, gilt gingerbread! NIGHT. Hey, [_Sings._ _Now the Fair's a filling! O, for a tune to startle The birds o' the booths here billing, Yearly with old saint Bartle! The drunkards they are wading, The punks and chapmen trading;_ Buy any ballads, new ballads? _Enter URSULA, from her Booth._ URS. Fie upon't: who would wear out their youth and prime thus, in roasting of pigs, that had any cooler vocation? hell's a kind of cold cellar to't, a very fine vault, o' my conscience!--What, Mooncalf! MOON. [_within._] Here, mistress. NIGHT. How now, Ursula? in a heat, in a heat? URS. My chair, you false faucet you; and my morning's draught, quickly, a bottle of ale, to quench me, rascal. I am all fire and fat, Nightingale, I shall e'en melt away to the first woman, a rib again, I am afraid. I do water the ground in knots, as I go, like a great garden pot; you may follow me by the SS. I make. NIGHT. Alas, good Urse! was Zekiel here this morning? URS. Zekiel? what Zekiel? NIGHT. Zekiel Edgworth, the civil cutpurse, you know him well enough; he that talks bawdy to you still: I call him my secretary. URS. He promised to be here this morning, I remember. NIGHT. When he comes, bid him stay: I'll be back again presently.