Here came hue after the crier: and I was set close at mother Nips' house, and there I called for three pots of ale, as tis the manner of us courtiers. Now, sirra, I had taken the maiden head of two of them.
Now, as I was lifting up the third to my mouth, there came: hold him, hold him! now I could not tell whom to catch hold on, but I am sure I caught one: perchance a may be in this pot. Well, I'll see: mas, I cannot see him yet; well, I'll look a little further. Mas, he is a little slave, if a be here.
Why, here's no body. All this goes well yet: but if the old trot should come for her pot--aye, marry, there's the matter, but I care not; I'll face her out, and call her old rusty, dusty, musty, fusty, crusty firebrand, and worse than all that, and so face her out of her pot: but soft, here she comes.
[Enter the old woman.]
OLD WOMAN.
Come on, you knave: where's my pot, you knave?
MOUSE.
Go look your pot: come not to me for your pot twere good for you.
OLD WOMAN.
Thou liest, thou knave; thou hast my pot.
MOUSE.
You lie, and you say it. I your pot! I know what I'll say.
OLD WOMAN.
Why, what wilt thou say?
MOUSE.
But say I have him, and thou darst.
OLD WOMAN.
Why, thou knave, thou hast not only my pot but my drink unpaid for.
MOUSE.
