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?
Tyb. My gammer sat her downe on her pes,[668] and bad me reach thy breeches, 30
And by and by (a vengeance in it!) or she had take two stitches
To clap a clout upon thine ars, by chaunce asyde she leares,
And Gyb, our cat, in the milke pan she spied over head and eares.
"Ah, hore! out, thefe!" she cryed aloud, and swapt the breches downe. 34
Up went her staffe, and out leapt Gyb at doors into the towne,
And synce that tyme was never wyght cold set their eies upon it.
Gogs malison chave (Cocke and I) bid twenty times light on it.
Hodge. And is not then my breeches sewid up, to morow that I shuld were?
Tyb. No, in faith, Hodge, thy breeches lie for al this never the nere.
Hodge. Now a vengeance light on al the sort, that better shold have kept it, 40
The cat, the house, and Tib, our maid, that better shold have swept it!
Se where she cometh crawling! Come on, in twenty devils way!
Ye have made a fayre daies worke, have you not? pray you, say!