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I was promised them against the feast; but they come
not too late now.
DORCAS:
He hath promised you more than that, or there be liars.
MOPSA:
He hath paid you all he promised you; may be, he has
paid you more, which will shame you to give him again.
Clown:
Is there no manners left among maids? will they
wear their plackets where they should bear their
faces? Is there not milking-time, when you are
going to bed, or kiln-hole, to whistle off these
secrets, but you must be tittle-tattling before all
our guests? 'tis well they are whispering: clamour
your tongues, and not a word more.
MOPSA:
I have done. Come, you promised me a tawdry-lace
and a pair of sweet gloves.
Clown:
Have I not told thee how I was cozened by the way
and lost all my money?
AUTOLYCUS:
And indeed, sir, there are cozeners abroad;
therefore it behoves men to be wary.
Clown:
Fear not thou, man, thou shalt lose nothing here.
AUTOLYCUS:
I hope so, sir; for I have about me many parcels of charge.
Clown:
What hast here? ballads?
MOPSA:
Pray now, buy some: I love a ballad in print o'
life, for then we are sure they are true.
AUTOLYCUS:
Here's one to a very doleful tune, how a usurer's
wife was brought to bed of twenty money-bags at a
burthen and how she longed to eat adders' heads and
toads carbonadoed.
MOPSA:
Is it true, think you?
AUTOLYCUS:
Very true, and but a month old.
DORCAS:
Bless me from marrying a usurer!
AUTOLYCUS:
Here's the midwife's name to't, one Mistress
Tale-porter, and five or six honest wives that were
present. Why should I carry lies abroad?
MOPSA:
Pray you now, buy it.
Clown:
Come on, lay it by: and let's first see moe
ballads; we'll buy the other things anon.
AUTOLYCUS:
Here's another ballad of a fish, that appeared upon
the coast on Wednesday the four-score of April,
forty thousand fathom above water, and sung this
ballad against the hard hearts of maids: it was
thought she was a woman and was turned into a cold
fish for she would not exchange flesh with one that
loved her: the ballad is very pitiful and as true.
DORCAS:
Is it true too, think you?
AUTOLYCUS:
Five justices' hands at it, and witnesses more than
my pack will hold.
Clown:
Lay it by too: another.
AUTOLYCUS:
This is a merry ballad, but a very pretty one.
MOPSA:
Let's have some merry ones.
AUTOLYCUS:
Why, this is a passing merry one and goes to
the tune of 'Two maids wooing a man:' there's
scarce a maid westward but she sings it; 'tis in