Marg. Nay, when? thou wilt make me melancholy.
Firk. God forbid your worship should fall into that humour;—I run. [Exit.
Marg. Let me see now, Roger and Hans.
Hodge. Ay, forsooth, dame—mistress I should say, but the old term so sticks to the roof of my mouth, I can hardly lick it off.
Marg. Even what thou wilt, good Roger; dame is a fair name for any honest Christian; but let that pass. How dost thou, Hans?
Hans. Mee tanck you, vro.[63]
Marg. Well, Hans and Roger, you see, God hath blest your master, and, perdy, if ever he comes to be Master Sheriff of London—as we are all mortal—you shall see, I will have some odd thing or other in a corner for you: I will not be your back-friend; but let that pass. Hans, pray thee, tie my shoe.
Hans. Yaw, ic sal, vro.[64]
Marg. Roger, thou know’st the size of my foot; as it is none of the biggest, so I thank God, it is handsome enough; prithee, let me have a pair of shoes made, cork, good Roger, wooden heel too.[65]
Hodge. You shall.