Taming of the Shrew.
A paire of stockes you rogue.
Y'are a baggage, the
Slies are no
Rogues. Looke in the Chronicles, we came
Richard Conqueror: therefore
, let the world slide: Sessa.
You will not pay for the glasses you haue burst?
No, not a deniere: go by
Ieronimie, goe to thy
cold bed, and warme thee.
I know my remedie, I must go fetch the Head
Third, or fourth, or fift Borough, Ile answere
him by Law. Ile not budge an inch boy: Let him come,
Meriman, the poore Curre is imbost, Clowderwith the deepe‑mouth'd brach, Siluermade it good Belmanis as good as he my Lord, Ecchowere as fleete,
He breath's my Lord. Were he not warm'd
with Ale, this were a bed but cold to sleep so soundly.