_Diccon._ By my father's soul, Hodge, if I should now be sworn, I cannot choose but say thy breech is foul betorn, But the next remedy in such a case and hap Is to planch on a piece as broad as thy cap. _Hodge._ Gog's soul, man, 'tis not yet two days fully ended, Since my dame Gurton (cham sure) these breeches amended; But cham made such a drudge to trudge at every need, Chwold rend it though it were stitched with sturdy packthread. _Diccon._ Hodge, let thy breeches go, and speak and tell me soon What devil aileth Gammer Gurton and Tib her maid to frown. _Hodge._ Tush, man, th'art deceived: 'tis their daily look; They cow'r so over the coals, their eyes be blear'd with smoke. _Diccon._ Nay, by the mass, I perfectly perceived, as I came hither, That either Tib and her dame hath been by the ears together, Or else as great a matter, as thou shalt shortly see. _Hodge._ Now, ich beseech our Lord they never better agree! _Diccon._ By Gog's soul, there they sit as still as stones in the street, As though they had been taken with fairies, or else with some ill-spreet. _Hodge._ Gog's heart! I durst have laid my cap to a crown Ch'would learn of some prancome as soon as ich came to town. _Diccon._ Why, Hodge, art thou inspired? or didst thou thereof hear? _Hodge._ Nay, but ich saw such a wonder as ich saw nat this seven year. Tom Tankard's cow, by Gog's bones! she set me up her sail, And flinging about his half acre, fisking with her tail, As though there had been in her arse a swarm of bees, And chad not cried "tphrowh, whore," shea'd leapt out of his lees. _Diccon._ Why, Hodge, lies the cunning in Tom Tankard's cow's tail? _Hodge._ Well, ich chave heard some say such tokens do not fail. But canst thou not tell, in faith, Diccon, why she frowns, or whereat? Hath no man stolen her ducks or hens, or gelded Gib, her cat? _Diccon._ What devil can I tell, man? I could not have one word! They gave no more heed to my talk than thou wouldst to a lord. _Hodge._ Ich cannot skill but muse, what marvellous thing it is. Chill in and know myself what matters are amiss. _Diccon._ Then farewell, Hodge, a while, since thou dost inward haste, For I will into the good wife Chat's, to feel how the ale doth taste. THE FIRST ACT. THE THIRD SCENE. HODGE, TIB. _Hodge._ Cham aghast; by the mass, ich wot not what to do. Chad need bless me well before ich go them to. Perchance some felon sprit may haunt our house indeed; And then chwere but a noddy to venture where cha' no need. _Tib._ Cham worse than mad, by the mass, to be at this stay! Cham chid, cham blam'd, and beaten, all th'hours on the day; Lamed and hunger-starved, pricked up all in jags, Having no patch to hide my back, save a few rotten rags!