Gay beckoned to her and she came up to the window.
"Finely sung, Polly," cried Gay.

"Who taught thee, child ?" "I taught myself, sir," said she dropping a curtsey.
"Then you had a good teacher.

There's a crown for you." "Oh sir ...

it's too much." "Nay, Polly--if your name isn't Polly it ought to be.

What does your mother call you ?" "Mostly an idle slut, sir." Her face remained unmoved save her eyes, which danced with sly merriment.
The men at the window burst into a roar of laughter.