_Hodge._ Iche cannot styll but muse, what mervaylous thinge it is. Chyll in and know my selfe what matters are amys. 42 _Diccon._ Then fare well, Hodge, a while, synce thou doest inward hast, For I will into the good wyfe Chats, to feele how the ale doth taste. The fyrst Acte. The thyrd Sceane. HODGE. TYB. _Hodge._ Cham agast; by the masse, ich wot not what to do. Chad nede blesse me well before ich go them to. Perchaunce some felon sprit may haunt our house indeed; And then chwere but a noddy to venter where cha no neede. _Tyb._ Cham worse then mad, by the masse, to be at this staye! 5 Cham chyd, cham blamd, and beaton, all thoures on the daye; Lamed and honger-storved, prycked up all in jagges, Havyng no patch to hyde my backe, save a few rotten ragges! _Hodge._ I say, Tyb--if thou be Tyb, as I trow sure thou bee,-- What devyll make a doe is this, betweene our dame and thee? 10 _Tyb._ Gogs breade, Hodg, thou had a good turne thou wart not here [this while]! A iii b It had been better for some of us to have ben hence a myle; My gammer is so out of course and frantyke all at ones, That Cocke, our boy, and I, poore wench, have felt it on our bones. _Hodge._ What is the matter--say on, Tib--wherat she taketh so on? 15 _Tyb._ She is undone, she sayth, alas! her joye and life is gone! If shee here not of some comfort, she is, fayth![665] but dead; Shal never come within her lyps one inch of meate ne bread. _Hodge._ Byr Ladie, cham not very glad to see her in this dumpe. Cholde[666] a noble her stole hath fallen, & shee hath broke her rumpe. 20 _Tyb._ Nay, and that were the worst, we wold not greatly care For bursting of her huckle bone, or breaking of her chaire; But greatter, greater, is her grief, as, Hodge, we shall all feele! _Hodge._ Gogs woundes, Tyb! my gammer has never lost her neele? _Tyb._ Her neele! _Hodge._ Her neele! 25 _Tyb._ Her neele! By him that made me, it is true, Hodge, I tell thee. _Hodge._ Gogs sacrament, I would she had lost tharte out of her bellie! The Devill, or els his dame, they ought[667] her, sure, a shame! How a murryon came this chaunce, say, Tib! unto our dame?