But it be by his pride, from other men;
They looken big as bulls that be bate,
And bearen the crag so stiff and so state,
As cock on his dunghill crowing crank.
HOB. Diggon, I am so stiff and so stank,
that uneath may I stand any more;
And now the western wind bloweth sore,
That now is in his chief sovereignty,
Beating the withered leaf from the tree;
Sit we down here under the hill;