Is it true, think you?
Very true; and but a month old.
Bless me from marrying a usurer!
Here's the midwife's name to' t, one Mistress Taleporter,
and five or six honest wives that were present. Why should I
carry lies abroad?
Pray you now, buy it.
Come on, lay it by; and let's first see more ballads; we'll
buy the other things anon.
Here's another ballad, of a fish that appeared upon the coast
on Wednesday the fourscore 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.
Is it true too, think you?
Five justices' hands at it; and witnesses more than my pack
Lay it by too: another.
This is a merry ballad; but a very pretty one.
Let's have some merry ones.
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 request, I can tell you.
We can both sing it: if thou'lt bear a part, thou shalt hear;
'tis in three parts.
We had the tune on't a month ago.
I can bear my part; you must know 'tis my occupation: have at it
Get you hence, for I must go
Where it fits not you to know.
It becomes thy oath full well
Thou to me thy secrets tell.
Me too! Let me go thither.
Or thou goest to the grange or mill:
If to either, thou dost ill.
Thou hast sworn my love to be;
Thou hast sworn it more to me;
Then whither goest? — say, whither?
We'll have this song out anon by ourselves; my father and the
gentlemen are in sad talk, and we'll not trouble them. — Come,
bring away thy pack after me. — Wenches, I'll buy for you
both: — Pedlar, let's have the first choice. — Follow me, girls.
[Exit with DORCAS and MOPSA.]
[Aside.] And you shall pay well for 'em.
Will you buy any tape,
Or lace for your cape,
My dainty duck, my dear-a?
Any silk, any thread,
Any toys for your head,
Of the new'st and fin'st, fin'st wear-a?
Come to the pedlar;
Money's a meddler
That doth utter all men's ware-a.
Master, there is three carters, three shepherds, three
neat-herds, three swine-herds, that have made themselves all
men of hair; they call themselves saltiers: and they have
dance which the wenches say is a gallimaufry of gambols,
because they are not in't; but they themselves are o' the
mind (if it be not too rough for some that know little but
bowling) it will please plentifully.
Away! we'll none on't; here has been too much homely foolery
already. — I know, sir, we weary you.