says the wit in the comedy, 'and a voice that will
drown all the city.' If a gallant stood in the way, she drew upon him in
an instant, and he must be a clever swordsman to hold his ground against
the tomboy who had laid low the German fencer himself. A good fellow
always, she had ever a merry word for the passer-by, and so sharp was
her tongue that none ever put a trick upon her. Not to know Moll was to
be inglorious, and she 'slipped from one company to another like a fat
eel between a Dutchman's fingers.' Now at Parker's Ordinary, now at the
Bear Garden, she frequented only the haunts of men, and not until old
age came upon her did she endure patiently the presence of women.

Her voice and speech were suited to the galligaskin. She was a
true disciple of Maltre Francois, hating nothing so much as mincing
obscenity, and if she flavoured her discourse with many a blasphemous
quip, the blasphemy was 'not so malicious as customary.' Like the blood
she was, she loved good ale and wine; and she regarded it among her
proudest titles to renown that she was the first of women to smoke
tobacco. Many was the pound of best Virginian that she bought of
Mistress Gallipot, and the pipe, with monkey, dog, and eagle, is her
constant emblem. Her antic attire, the fearless courage of her pranks,
now and again involved her in disgrace or even jeopardised her freedom;
but her unchanging gaiety made light of disaster, and still she laughed
and rollicked in defiance of prude and pedant.

Her companion in many a fantastical adventure was Banks, the vintner of
Cheapside, that same Banks who taught his horse to dance and shod
him with silver. Now once upon a time a right witty sport was devised
between them. The vintner bet Moll L20 that she would not ride from
Charing Cross to Shoreditch astraddle on horseback, in breeches and
doublet, boots and spurs.

The hoyden took him up in a moment, and added of her own devilry a
trumpet and banner. She set out from Charing Cross bravely enough, and
a trumpeter being an unwonted spectacle, the eyes of all the town were
clapped upon her. Yet none knew her until she reached Bishopsgate, where
an orange-wench set up the cry, 'Moll Cutpurse on horseback!' Instantly
the cavalier was surrounded by a noisy mob. Some would have torn her
from the saddle for an imagined insult upon womanhood, others, more
wisely minded, laughed at the prank with good-humoured merriment. Every
minute the throng grew denser, an