she would: ay, and his bounty has filled more empty bellies too, though his granum might dine on a turnip, for aught I know or care about the matter.
Mar. Don't tell me about his riches, and his bounty, and what not: will all that ever make him any thing else than the son of John Freeman the weaver? I wonder to hear you talk such nonsense, Arthur Wilkins; you that can read books and understand reason: such a fellow as that is not good enough to stand cap in hand before Mr. Baltimore.
(The rabble come forward huzzaing, and making a great noise, and take different sides of the stage.)
Croud on F. side.) Huzza! huzza! Freeman for ever!
Mar. Yes, yes, to be sure: Freeman for ever! fat Sam the butcher for ever! black Dick the tinker for ever! any body is good enough for you, filthy rapscallions!
1st Mob on F. side.) Ay, scold away, old Margery! Freeman for ever! say I. Down with your proud, pennyless gentry! Freeman for ever!
Mar. Down with your rich would-be-gentry upstarts! Baltimore for ever! (to mob on her side) Why don't you call out, oafs?
(The mob on her side call out Baltimore, and the mob on the other, Freeman; but the F. side gets the better.)
What, do you give it up so? you poor, spiritless nincumpoops! I would roar till I bursted first, be-
