SYBIL. Good morrow, young mistress. I am sure you make that garland for me; against2 I shall be Lady of the Harvest.
ROSE. Sybil, what news at London?
SYBIL. None but good; my lord mayor, your father, and master Philpot, your uncle, and Master Scot, your cousin, and Mistress Frigbottom by Doctors Commons, do all, by my troth, send you most hearty commendations.
SYBIL. O yes, out of cry, by my troth. I scant knew him; here a wore a scarf; and here a scarf, here a bunch of feathers, and here precious stones and jewels, and a pair of garters,O, monstrous! like one of our yellow silk curtains at home here in Old Ford House here, in Master Belly-mounts chamber. I stood at our door in Cornhill, lookd at him, he at me indeed, spake to him, but he not to me, not a word; marry go-up, thought I, with a wanion!3 He passed by me as proudMarry foh! are you grown humorous,4 thought I; and so shut the door, and in I came.
SYBIL. Mild? yea, as a bushel of stamped crabs.5 He looked upon me as sour as verjuice.6 Go thy ways, thought I: thou mayst be much in my gaskins,7 but nothing in my nether-stocks.8 This is your fault, mistress, to love him that loves not you; he thinks scorn to do as hes done to; but if I were as you, Id cry, Go by, Jeronimo, go by!9
Id set mine old debts against my new driblets,
And the hares foot against the goose giblets,
For if ever I sigh, when sleep I should take,
Pray God I may lose my maidenhead when I wake.
ROSE. Will my love leave me then, and go to France?
SYBIL. I know not that, but I am sure I see him stalk before the soldiers. By my troth, he is a proper man; but he is proper that proper doth. Let him go snick-up,10 young mistress.
SYBIL. Will I, quotha? At whose suit? By my troth, yes, Ill go. A cambric apron, gloves, a pair of purple stockings, and a stomacher! Ill sweat in purple, mistress, for you; Ill take anything that comes a Gods name. O rich! a cambric apron! Faith, then have at up tails all. Ill go jiggy-joggy to London, and be here in a trice, young mistress. Exit.