Olde browne bread crustes must haue much good mumblyng,
But good ale downe your throte hath good easie tumbling.
R. Royster. The iolyest wenche that ere I hearde, little mouse,
May I not reioyce that she shall dwell in my house?
Tib. Talk. So sirrha, nowe this geare beginneth for to frame.
M. Mumbl. Thanks to God, though your work stand stil, your tong is not lame
Tib. Talk. And though your teeth be gone, both so sharpe and so fine
Yet your tongue can renne on patins as well as mine.
M. Mumbl. Ye were not for nought named Tyb Talke apace.
Tib. Talk. Doth my talke grieue you? Alack, God saue your grace.