But, neighbour Hob, neighbour Hob, what have ye to zell?
Hob.
Bum troth, neighbour Lob, to you I chil tell:
Chave two goslings and a chine of good pork;
There is no vatter between this and York.
Chave a pot of strawberries and a calf’s head,
A zennight zince to-morrow it hath been dead.
Lob.
Chave a score of eggs and of butter a pound:
Yesterday a nest of goodly young rabbits I vound.