Your servant, Squire! We shall beat you.

Harry says we shall soon be a hundred a-head of you.
Fancy those boys! they would sleep at Fallow field last night.

How I wish you had made a bet with me, Squire.' 'Well, my lass, it's not too late,' said the Squire, detaining her hand.
'Oh, but it wouldn't be fair now.

And I'm not going to be kissed on the field, if you please, Squire.

Here, Dorry will do instead.