SLIP

And are not you in a pickle Cicely? She is not dead Sir; she breathes. Pull it off: no matter for spoiling her face if she be dead. Her little finger is ringed; and I will wring it rome her. Why should the dead partake of living ceremonies? Blow wind in her face. Can water make one alive that's dead? unless it be hight water. A woman's spirits? they are devilish sure: I had best conjure them back again. Pray sir, let me conjure down this Devil in her tongue; it'll raise tempests else. Murderers, and base! Pray Gentlewoman, to whom speak you all this? But pray Ciceley, withal, neglect not my break fast. Rising early and walking gets us good stomachs: yet I could be content to fast with such laced mutton and a good cullice more then hall e a morning. Yes, sir. With their mouths. IT would be but saucily done of it to leave me so: but if it will not keep me from beating, I'll keep it no lon her; but be mannerly. The deer fed well sir, only a miss chance. Some Cuckolds cur (for I saw him run towards London) had pulled down two or three young deer. I sent a Fawn to a wanting poet, a friend of mine; who I presume will make profitable use of it. Dress it in some lamentable pitaph and dedicate to his ningle: whose c mp ssion to ounty must redeem his lavender'd plush, and commend him again to converse with S cke and good company. Something to make people laugh at me. A longing Lady in the strand had a pricket. Then I S nt a soar to Ba ber-Surgeons Hall. A little soar makes them a great feast. Pray stay sir, who comes yonder? Some hight spurred Gallant, that God a drunken fea for last night, and must bleed this morning. His common Mistress you m ane sir. So is the creature; a Cart take them. They have infected more honest Alehouses with bade names, then Cakes and Cream will ever restore again. A wench is grown a necessary appendix to two pots at Totenham Court. And I'll home to observe how I can sleep after early rising. If my master should catch me napping, it's but dreaming a lie to excuse it. I'll persuade him it's as true Prophecy as Bookers Almanac. Exit. Where's this Maggoti-pie of Marrowbone? Come you clean washed chitterling, and give me my breakfast. How now Ciceley, where hath your face been? at the pain ters? Hay-day; Ciceley's own face, and this Mistress die for love Ciceley - idem. Now I swear by hunger (and that's a strong oath) I think women have more fegaries then the Devil would have Clients, if he were a Lawyer and pleaded without fees. You will not be lost long: he is likely to have a sweet match of it that finds you. Yet I could be content my seven you res service might be so rewarded. But the bag gage is as coy as and Alde men eldest daughter: she hath beaten me a hundred times (coward as I was for suffering it) for attempting to kiss her. But now I will revenge it upon her Cream-bowls; over whose sweets I will triumph. Which daughter sir? your daughter gentlewoman, or your gentlewoman daughter? Why sir, Ciceley's no more plain Ciceley, but Cice lay in laced satin. The gentlewoman and she are run out of themselves one into another. For ought I know, run away one with another. It's impossible: who knows which way they are gone. Beside, it's a missed would choke a brewers horse; I cannot see one hand for the other. A kill king command. The best is, it will break my heart, no matter then for my belly. Hunger, I defy thee; revenge I hug thee. I will led you a wildgoose chase, till we come to Toten-ham Court : where I will score two do zen, and reckon with mine hostess maid, whose belly I have raised with umbles. Exit. If I find them not, count me no wiser then and A apothecary, that looked for Jews ears on and old Pillory; When the dead wood boar none but Scriveners. Very bade Sir. My incredulous hostess will not trust: therefore pray sir make hast; for without some supply of drink I faint in the half way of my message. Ther's Hope's or so: I he rd and inkling. The house swarms with gallants; some of which have surely taken up Ciceley, paltry Baggage, she p ayes the Lady at least, and makes mincing faces Like a country Bride at the upper end of the table. O Cakes and Ale, if you your sweets deny, Let Slip despairing in a halter die. God's-foot sir, it's Mistress Ci eley, and Ciceley Mi stris. Would, would, sir; did you put her to the squeak? I'll put you— Go your ways and quarrel no more, lest I be stickler with this terrible Emblem of a Butchers cruelty. Exit. Womanish. She'l cry when she's angry; laugh when she's tickled, and be sick when she cannot have her own will. She is called Cicily. Not very honest, and yet very honest. She cheats all the world that thinks she is wanton: but you may find by the late stories, that neither your Ants nor Cousin's can keep their legs so close. You are as bountiful as a new made Knight, that cou ts a City Widow by Attorney for the officers fees. She is and she is not. She is a Gentlewoman as she loves pride: which makes Gentlewomen apt to fallen; espe cially those of the waiting form. Then she is no Gentle woman because—because— It's well you interrupted me, for I had no reason: But Sir I will bring her to the bar of your presence, where she may answer for her self, while I convert your boun ty into wholesome nourishment from a black Pot, and have a bout with mine own sweet Turneup. I will sir, and arm my self Like a country Juror: I can not hold out too fast till I have given up my verdict. Exit. You had b worser a k the Midwife. Should you conjure that Devil into her dead More there, he might chance to to ll you lie.