Softe, let me alone! I will take the charge This matter further to enlarge Within a tyme shone. 15 If ye will marke my toyes, and note, I will geve ye leave to cut my throte If I make not good sporte. Dame Chat, I say, where be ye? within? _Chat._ Who have we there maketh such a din? 20 _Diccon._ Here is a good fellow, maketh no great daunger. _Chat._ What, Diccon? Come nere, ye be no straunger. We be fast set at trumpe, man, hard by the fyre; Thou shall set on the king, if thou come a little nyer. _Diccon._ Nay, nay, there is no tarying; I must be gone againe. 25 But first for you in councel I have a word or twain. _Chat._ Come hether, Dol! Dol, sit downe and play this game, And as thou sawest me do, see thou do even the same. There is five trumps beside the queene, the hindmost thou shalt finde her. Take hede of Sim Glovers wife, she hath an eie behind her! 30 Now, Diccon, say your will. _Diccon._ Nay, softe a little yet; I wold not tel it my sister, the matter is so great. There I wil have you sweare by our dere Lady of Bullaine, Saint Dunstone, and Saint Donnyke, with the three kings of Kullaine, That ye shal keepe it secret. _Chat._ Gogs bread! that will I doo! 35 As secret as mine owne thought, by God and the devil two! _Diccon,_ Here is Gammer Gurton, your neighbour, a sad and hevy wight: Her goodly faire red cock at home was stole this last night. _Chat,_ Gogs soul! her cock with the yelow legs, that nightly crowed so just? _Diccon._ That cock is stollen. _Chat._ What, was he fet out of the hens ruste? 40 _Diccon._ I can not tel where the devil he was kept, under key or locke; But Tib hath tykled in Gammers eare, that you shoulde steale the cocke. _Chat._ Have I, stronge hoore? by bread and salte!-- _Diccon._ What, softe, I say, be styl! Say not one word for all this geare. _Chat._ By the masse, that I wyl! I wil have the yong hore by the head, & the old trot by the throte. 45 _Diccon._ Not one word, Dame Chat, I say; not one word, for my cote! _Chat._ Shall such a begars brawle[684] as that, thinkest thou, make me a theefe? The pocks light on her hores sydes, a pestlence and a mischeefe! Come out, thou hungry nedy bytche! O that my nails be short!