A Maid is like the Golden Ore,
Which hath Guineas intrinsical in't,
Whose Worth is never known before
It is try'd and imprest in the Mint.
A Wife's like a Guinea in Gold,
Stampt with the Name of her Spouse;
Now here, now there; is bought, or is sold;
And is current in every House.
[Enter Filch.]
MRS. PEACHUM. Come hither, Filch. I am as fond of this Child, as
though my Mind misgave me he were my own. He hath as fine a Hand at
picking a Pocket as a Woman, and is as nimble-finger'd as a Juggler.
If an unlucky Session does not cut the Rope of thy Life, I pronounce,
Boy, thou wilt be a great Man in History. Where was your Post last
Night, my Boy?
FILCH. I ply'd at the Opera, Madam; and considering 'twas neither
dark nor rainy, so that there was no great Hurry in getting Chairs
and Coaches, made a tolerable Hand on't. These seven Handkerchiefs,
Madam.
MRS. PEACHUM. Colour'd ones, I see. They are of sure Sale from our
Warehouse at Redriff among the Seamen.
FILCH. And this Snuff-box.
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