_Gammer._ Rake a cat, Hodge! what wouldest thou do? _Hodge._ What, think'st that cham not able? Did not Tom Tankard rake his curtal t'o'er day standing in the stable? _Gammer._ Soft! be content, let's hear what news Cock bringeth from Mast Rat. _Cock._ Gammer, chave been there as you bad, you wot well about what. 'Twill not be long before he come, ich durst swear off a book, He bids you see ye be at home, and there for him to look. _Gammer._ Where didst thou find him, boy? was he not where I told thee? _Cock._ Yes, yes, even at Hob Filcher's house, by him that bought and sold me! A cup of ale had in his hand, and a crab lay in the fire; Chad much ado to go and come, all was so full of mire. And, gammer, one thing I can tell: Hob Filcher's nawl was lost, And Doctor Rat found it again, hard beside the door-post. I chold a penny can say something, your nee'le again to set. _Gammer._ Cham glad to hear so much, Cock, then trust he will not let To help us herein best he can; therefore, till time he come Let us go in; if there be ought to get thou shalt have some. THE FOURTH ACT. THE FIRST SCENE. DOCTOR RAT, GAMMER GURTON. _Doctor Rat._ A man were better twenty times be a bandog and bark, Than here among such a sort be parish priest or clerk, Where he shall never be at rest one pissing while a day, But he must trudge about the town, this way and that way; Here to a drab, there to a thief, his shoes to tear and rent, And that which is worst of all, at every knave's commandment! I had not sit the space to drink two pots of ale, But Gammer Gurton's sorry boy was straightway at my tail, And she was sick, and I must come, to do I wot not what! If once her finger's-end but ache--trudge, call for Doctor Rat! And when I come not at their call, I only thereby lose; For I am sure to lack therefore a tithe-pig or a goose. I warrant you, when truth is known, and told they have their tale, The matter whereabout I come is not worth a halfpennyworth of ale; Yet must I talk so sage and smooth, as though I were a gloser Else ere the year come at an end, I shall be sure the loser. What work ye, Gammer Gurton? How? here is your friend Mast Rat. _Gammer._ Ah! good Mast Doctor! 'cha troubled, 'cha troubled you, 'chwot well that. _Doctor Rat._ How do ye, woman? be ye lusty, or be ye not well at ease? _Gammer._ By Gis, Master, cham not sick, but yet chave a disease. Chad a foul turn now of late, chill tell it you, by gigs! _Doctor Rat._ Hath your brown cow cast her calf, or your sandy sow her pigs? _Gammer._ No, but chad been as good they had as this, ich wot well. _Doctor Rat._ What is the matter?