_Diccon._ Well done, by Gogs malt! well songe and well sayde! Come on, mother Chat, as thou art true mayde, One fresh pot of ale lets see, to make an ende Agaynst this colde wether my naked armes to defende! This gere it warms the soule! Now, wind, blow on the worst! 5 And let us drink and swill till that our bellies burste! Now were he a wise man by cunnynge could defyne Which way my journey lyeth, or where Dyccon will dyne! But one good turne I have: be it by nyght or daye, South, east, north or west, I am never out of my waye! 10 _Hodge._ Chym goodly rewarded, cham I not, do you thyncke? Chad a goodly dynner for all my sweate and swyncke! Neyther butter, cheese, mylke, onyons, fleshe, nor fyshe, Save this poor pece of barly bread: tis a pleasant costly dishe! _Diccon._ Haile, fellow Hodge, and well[676] to fare with thy meat, if thou have any: 15 But by thy words, as I them smelled, thy daintrels be not manye. _Hodge._ Daintrels, Diccon? Gogs soule, man, save this piece of dry horsbread, Cha byt no byt this lyvelonge daie, no crome come in my head: My gutts they yawle-crawle, and all my belly rumbleth; The puddynges[677] cannot lye still, each one over other tumbleth. 20 By Gogs harte, cham so vexte, and in my belly pende, Chould one peece were at the spittlehouse, another at the castelle ende! _Diccon._ Why, Hodge, was there none at home thy dinner for to set? _Hodge._ Gogs[678] bread, Diccon, ich came to late, was nothing there to get! Gib (a fowle feind might on her light!) lickt the milke pan so clene, 25 See, Diccon, twas not so well washt this seven yere, as ich wene! A pestilence light on all ill lucke! chad thought, yet for all thys Of a morsell of bacon behynde the dore at worst shuld not misse: But when ich sought a slyp to cut, as ich was wont to do, Gogs soule, Diccon! Gyb, our cat, had eate the bacon to! 30 (_Which bacon Diccon stole, as is declared before._) _Diccon._ Ill luck, quod he! mary, swere it, Hodge! this day, the trueth to tel, Thou rose not on thy ryght syde, or else blest thee not wel. Thy milk slopt up! thy bacon filtched! that was to bad luck, Hodg! _Hodge._ Nay, nay, ther was a fowler fault, my Gammer ga me the dodge;[679] Seest not how cham rent and torn, my heels, my knees, and my breech? 35 Chad thought, as ich sat by the fire, help here and there a stitch: But there ich was powpt[680] indeede. _Diccon._ Why, Hodge?