His heart being wicked consented to this thing.
Now he hath no more brothers nor kindred alive:
If the king use this gear still, he cannot long thrive.
Enter Hob and Lob.
Hob.
God’s hat, neighbours, come away; it’s time to market to go.
Lob.
God’s vast, neighbour, zay ye zo?
The clock hath stricken vive, ich think, by lakin:[242]
Bum vay,[243] vrom sleep cham not very well waken.