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Book, page 121 / 154 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. You lie like an old--I will not say whore. OLD WOMAN. Dost thou call me whore? I'll cap thee for my pot.
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