[The Second Acte.] The Fyrst Sceane.
Diccon. Hodge.
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?
Hodge. Bootes not, man, to tell.
Cham so drest amongst a sorte of fooles, chad better be in hell.
My gammer (cham ashamed to say), by God, served me not weele.
Diccon. How so, Hodge?
Hodge. Has she not gone, trowest now, and lost her neele?
Diccon. Her eele, Hodge? Who fysht of late? That was a dainty dysh! 41
Hodge. Tush, tush, her neele, her neele, her neele, man! tis neither flesh nor fysh;
A lytle thing with an hole in the end, as bright as any syller,
Small, longe, sharpe at the poynt, and straight as any pyller.
Diccon. I know not what a devil thou meenst, thou bringst me more in doubt. 45
Hodge. Knowst not with what Tom Tailers man sits broching throughe a clout?
A neele, a neele, a neele! my gammer's neele is gone.
Diccon. Her neele, Hodge? now I smel thee! that was a chaunce alone!
By the masse, thou hast a shamefull losse, and it wer but for thy breches.
Hodge. Gogs soule, man, chould give a crown chad it but three stitches. 50
Diccon. How sayest thou, Hodge? What shuld he have, again thy nedle got?
Hodge. Bern vathers soule, and chad it, chould give him a new grot.
Diccon. Canst thou keep counsaile in this case?
Hodge. Else chwold my tonge[681] were out.
Diccon. Do than but then by my advise, and I will fetch it without doubt.
Hodge. Chyll runne, chyll ryde, chyll dygge, chyl delve, chill toyle, chill trudge, shalt see; 55
Chill hold, chil drawe, chil pull, chill pynche, chill kneele on my bare knee;
Chill scrape, chill scratche, chill syfte, chill seeke, chill bowe, chill bende, chill sweate,
Chill stoop, chil stur, chil cap, chil knele, chil crepe on hands and feete;
Chill be thy bondman, Diccon, ich sweare by sunne and moone.
And channot sumwhat to stop this gap, cham utterly undone! 60
(Pointing behind to his torne breeches.)
Diccon. Why, is there any special cause thou takest hereat such sorow?
Hodge. Kirstian Clack, Tom Simpsons maid, by the masse, coms hether to morow,
Cham not able to say, betweene us what may hap;
She smyled on me the last Sunday, when ich put of my cap.
Diccon. Well, Hodge, this is a matter of weight, and must be kept close, 65
It might els turne to both our costes, as the world now gose.
Shalt sware to be no blab, Hodge!
Hodge. Chyll, Diccon.
Diccon. Then go to,
Lay thine hand here; say after me as thou shal here me do.
Haste no booke?
Hodge. Cha no booke, I!
Diccon. Then needes must force us both,
Upon my breech to lay thine hand, and there to take thine othe.
Hodge. I, Hodge, breechelesse 71
Sweare to Diccon, rechelesse,
By the crosse that I shall kysse,
To keep his counsaile close,
And alwayes me to dispose 75
To worke that his pleasure is. (Here he kysseth Diccons breech.)
Diccon. Now, Hodge, see thou take heede,
And do as I thee byd;
For so I judge it meete;
This nedle again to win, 80
There is no shift therin
But conjure up a spreete.
Hodge. What, the great devill, Diccon, I saye?
Diccon. Yea, in good faith, that is the waye.
Fet with some prety charme. 85
Hodge. Soft, Diccon, be not to hasty yet,
By the masse, for ich begyn to sweat!
Cham afrayde of some[682] harme.
Diccon. Come hether, then, and sturre the nat
One inche out of this cyrcle plat, 90
But stande as I thee teache.
Hodge. And shall ich be here safe from theyr clawes?
Diccon. The mayster devill with his longe pawes
Here to the can not reache.
Now will I settle me to this geare. 95
Hodge. I saye, Diccon, heare me, heare!
Go softely to thys matter!
Diccon. What devyll, man? art afraide of nought?
Hodge. Canst not tarrye a lytle thought
Tyll ich make a curtesie of water? 100
Diccon. Stand still to it; why shuldest thou feare hym?
Hodge. Gogs sydes, Diccon, me thinke ich heare him!
And tarrye, chal mare all!
Diccon. The matter is no worse than I tolde it.
Hodge. By the masse, cham able no longer to holde it! 105
To bad! iche must beray the hall!
Diccon. Stand to it, Hodge! sture not, you horson!
What devyll, be thine ars strynges brusten?
Thyselfe a while but staye,
The devill (I smell hym) will be here anone. 110
Hodge. Hold him fast, Diccon, cham gone! cham gone!
Chyll not be at that fraye!