Chave forty things mo, of more and of less;
My brain is not very good them to express.
But God’s hat, neighbour, wot’st what?
Hob.
No, not well, neighbour, what’s that?
Lob.
Bum vay, neighbour, master king is a zhrode lad;
Zo God help me and holidam, I think the vool be mad:
Zome zay he deal cruelly, his brother he did kill;
And also a goodly young lad’s heart-blood he did spill.