_Diccon._ Well done, by Gog's malt! well sung and well said! Come on, mother Chat, as thou art true maid, One fresh pot of ale let's see, to make an end Against this cold weather my naked arms to defend! This gear it warms the soul! now, wind, blow on thy worst! And let us drink and swill till that our bellies burst! Now were he a wise man by cunning could define Which way my journey lieth, or where Diccon will dine! But one good turn I have: be it by night or day, South, east, north or west, I am never out of my way! _Hodge._ Chim goodly rewarded, cham I not, do you think? Chad a goodly dinner for all my sweat and swink! Neither butter, cheese, milk, onions, flesh, nor fish, Save this poor piece of barley-bread: 'tis a pleasant costly dish! _Diccon._ Hail, fellow Hodge, and well to fare with thy meat, if you have any: But by thy words, as I them smelled, thy daintrels be not many. _Hodge._ Daintrels, Diccon? Gog's soul, man, save this piece of dry horsebread, Cha bit no bit this livelong day, no crumb come in my head: My guts they yawl-crawl, and all my belly rumbleth, The puddings cannot lie still, each one over other tumbleth. By Gog's heart, cham so vexed, and in my belly penn'd, Chould one piece were at the spital-house, another at the castle end! _Diccon._ Why, Hodge, was there none at home thy dinner for to set? _Hodge._ Gog's bread, Diccon, ich came too late, was nothing there to get! Gib (a foul fiend might on her light!) licked the milk-pan so clean, See, Diccon, 'twas not so well washed this seven year, as ich ween! A pestilence light on all ill-luck! chad thought, yet for all this Of a morsel of bacon behind the door at worst should not miss: But when ich sought a slip to cut, as ich was wont to do, Gog's souls, Diccon! Gib, our cat, had eat the bacon too! [_Which bacon Diccon stole, as is declared before._ _Diccon._ Ill-luck, quod he! marry, swear it, Hodge! this day, the truth tell, Thou rose not on thy right side, or else blessed thee not well. Thy milk slopped up! thy bacon filched! that was too bad luck, Hodge! _Hodge._ Nay, nay, there was a fouler fault, my Gammer ga' me the dodge; Seest not how cham rent and torn, my heels, my knees, and my breech? Chad thought, as ich sat by the fire, help here and there a stitch: But there ich was pouped indeed. _Diccon._ Why, Hodge? _Hodge._ Boots not, man, to tell. Cham so drest amongst a sort of fools, chad better be in hell. My Gammer (cham ashamed to say) by God, served me no well. _Diccon._ How so, Hodge? _Hodge._ Has she not gone, trowest now, and lost her nee'le? _Diccon._ Her eel, Hodge? who fished of late? that was a dainty dish!