wench

Dromio:
Marry, sir, she's the kitchen wench and all grease;
and I know not what use to put her to
but to make a lamp of her and run from her by her own light.
I warrant, her rags and the tallow in them
will burn a Poland winter: if she lives till doomsday,
she'll burn a week longer than the whole world.

Antipholus:
What complexion is she of?

Dromio:
Swart, like my shoe, but her face nothing half so clean kept:
for why, she sweats; a man may go over shoes in the grime of it.

Antipholus:
That's a fault that water will mend.

Dromio:
No, sir, 'tis in grain; Noah's flood could not do it.

Antipholus:
What's her name?

Dromio:
Nell, sir; but her name and three quarters,
that's an ell and three quarters,
will not measure her from hip to hip.

Antipholus:
Then she bears some breadth?

Dromio:
No longer from head to foot than from hip to hip:
she is spherical, like a globe...

(Comedy of Errors, Act 3, Scene 2)