_Min._ Wod thou shouldst wel know, I am no Maggot, but a |1210| meere Gentlewoman borne.
_Tu._ I know thou art a Gentle, and Ile nibble at thee, thou shalt be my Cap-a-maintenance, & Ile carrie my naked sword before thee, my reuerend Ladie Lettice-cap.
_Mi._ Thou shalt carry no naked swords before me to fright me, |1215| thou--
_Tuc._ Go too, let not thy tongue play so hard at hot-cockles; for, Gammer Gurton, I meane to bee thy needle, I loue thee, I loue thee, because thy teeth stand like the Arches vnder London Bridge, for thou’t not turne Satyre & bite thy husband; No, come my little |1220| Cub, doe not scorne mee because I goe in Stag, in Buffe, heer’s veluet too; thou seest I am worth thus much in bare veluet.
_Tuc._ I know thou dost not, thou shat see that I could march with two or three hundred linkes before me, looke here, what? |1225| I could shew golde too, if that would tempt thee, but I will not make my selfe a Gold-smithes stall I; I scorne to goe chain’d my Ladie ath Hospitall, I doe; yet I will and must bee chain’d to thee.
_Min._ To mee? why Master Captaine, you know that I haue my |1230| choise of three or foure payre of Knights, and therefore haue small reason to flye out I know not how in a man of war.
_Tuc._ A man a warre? come thou knowst not what a worshipfull focation tis to be a Captaines wife: three or four payre of Knights? why dost heare Ioane-a-bedlam, Ile enter into bond to |1235| be dub’d by what day thou wilt, when the next action is layde vpon me, thou shalt be Ladified.
_Min._ You know I am offered that by halfe a dozen.
_Tuc._ Thou shalt little Miniuer, thou shalt, Ile ha this frock turn’d into a foote-cloth; and thou shalt be carted, drawne I |1240| meane, Coacht, Coacht, thou shalt ryde Iigga-Iogge; a Hood shall flap vp and downe heere, and this shipskin-cap shall be put off.
_Mini._ Nay perdie, Ile put off my cap for no mans pleasure.
_Tuc._ Wut thou be proude little Lucifer? well, thou shalt goe |1245| how thou wilt Maide-marian; come, busse thy little Anthony now, now, my cleane Cleopatria; so, so, goe thy waies Alexis secrets, th’ast a breath as sweet as the Rose, that growes by the Beare-garden, as sweete as the proud’st heade a Garlicke in England: come, wut march in, to the Gentle folkes?