URS. Why! would my booth have broke, if they had fallen out in't, sir? or would their heat have fired it? In, you rogue, and wipe the pigs, and mend the fire, that they fall not, or I'll both baste and roast you 'till your eyes drop out like them.--Leave the bottle behind you, and be curst awhile! [_Exit Mooncalf._ QUAR. Body o' the Fair! what's this? mother of the bawds? KNOCK. No, she's mother of the pigs, sir, mother of the pigs. WINW. Mother of the furies, I think, by her fire-brand. QUAR. Nay, she is too fat to be a fury, sure some walking sow of tallow! WINW. An inspired vessel of kitchen stuff! QUAR. She'll make excellent geer for the coach-makers here in Smithfield, to anoint wheels and axletrees with. [_She drinks this while._ URS. Ay, ay, gamesters, mock a plain plump soft wench of the suburbs, do, because she's juicy and wholesome; you must have your thin pinched ware, pent up in the compass of a dog-collar, (or 'twill not do) that looks like a long laced conger, set upright, and a green feather, like fennel in the joll on't. KNOCK. Well said, Urse, my good Urse! to 'em, Urse! QUAR. Is she your quagmire, Daniel Knockem? is this your bog? NIGHT. We shall have a quarrel presently. KNOCK. How! bog! quagmire? foul vapours! humph! QUAR. Yes, he that would venture for't, I assure him, might sink into her and be drown'd a week ere any friend he had could find where he were. WINW. And then he would be a fortnight weighing up again. QUAR. 'Twere like falling into a whole shire of butter; they had need be a team of Dutchmen should draw him out. KNOCK. Answer 'em, Urse: where's thy Bartholomew wit now, Urse, thy Bartholomew wit? URS. Hang 'em, rotten, roguy cheaters, I hope to see them plagued one day (pox'd they are already, I am sure) with lean playhouse poultry, that has the bony rump, sticking out like the ace of spades, or the point of a partizan, that every rib of them is like the tooth of a saw; and will so grate them with their hips and shoulders, as (take 'em altogether) they were as good lie with a hurdle. QUAR. Out upon her, how she drips! she's able to give a man the sweating sickness with looking on her. URS. Marry look off, with a patch on your face, and a dozen in your breech, though they be of scarlet, sir. I have seen as fine outsides as either of yours, bring lousy linings to the brokers, ere now, twice a week. QUAR. Do you think there may be a fine new cucking-stool in the Fair, to be purchased; one large enough, I mean? I know there is a pond of capacity for her. URS. For your mother, you rascal! Out, you rogue, you hedge-bird, you pimp, you pannier-man's bastard, you! QUAR. Ha, ha, ha!