DIG. Her was her, while it was day-light,
But now her is a most wretched wight:
For day, that was, is wightly past,
And now at erst the dark night doth hast.
HOB. Diggon, arede who has thee so dight;
Never I wist thee in so poor a plight.
Where is the fair flock thou wast wont to lead?
Or be they chaffred, or at mischief dead?
DIG. Ah! for love of that is to thee most lief,
Hobbinol, I pray thee gall not my old grief;