_Chat._ Thou shitten knave, I trow thou knowest the ful weight of my fist; I am fowly deceved onles thy head and my doore bar kyste. _Hodge._ Hold thy chat, whore, thou criest so loude, can no man els be hard. 100 _Chat._ Well, knave, and I had the alone, I wold surely rap thy costard! _Bayly._ Sir, answer me to this: is thy head whole or broken? _Hodge._[740] Yea, Master Bayly, blest be every good token, Is my head whole! Ich warrant you, tis neither scurvy nor scald! What, you foule beast, does think tis either pild or bald? 105 Nay, ich thanke God, chil not for al that thou maist spend That chad one scab on my narse as brode as thy fingers end. _Bayly._ Come nearer heare! _Hodge._ Yes, that I dare. _Bayly._ By our Lady, here is no harme, Hodges head is whole ynough, for al Dame Chats charme. _Chat._ By Gogs blest, hou ever the thing he clockes or smolders,[741] 110 I know the blowes he bare away, either with head or shoulders. Camest thou not, knave, within this houre, creping into my pens, And there was caught within my hous groping among my hens? _Hodge._ A plage both on the hens & the! A carte, whore, a carte! Chould I were hanged as hie as a tree and chware as false as thou art! 115 Geve my gammer again her washical[742] thou stole away in thy lap! _Gammer._ Yea Maister Baily, there is a thing you know not on, mayhap; This drab she kepes away my good, the devil he might her snare! Ich pray you that ich might have a right action on her [fare]. _Chat._ Have I thy good, old filth, or any such old sowes? 120 I am as true, I wold thou knew, as skin betwene thy browes! _Gammer._ Many a truer hath ben hanged, though you escape the daunger! _Chat._ Thou shalt answer, by Gods pity, for this thy foule slaunder! _Bayly._ Why, what can ye charge hir withal? To say so ye do not well. _Gammer._ Mary, a vengeance to hir hart! the whore hase stoln my neele! 125 _Chat._ Thy nedle, old witch? how so? it were almes thy scul to knock! So didst thou say the other day that I had stolne thy cock, And rosted him to my breakfast, which shal not be forgotten; The devil pul out thy lying tong and teeth that be so rotten! _Gammer._ Geve me my neele! As for my cock, chould be very loth 130 That chuld here tel he shuld hang on thy false faith and troth. _Bayly._ Your talke is such, I can scarce learne who shuld be most in fault. _Gammer._ Yet shall be find no other wight, save she, by bred and salt!