Lob.
By God, a vat goose chill give thee:
I think no hurt, by my vather’s soul I swear.
Hob.
Chave lived well all my life-time my neighbours among,
And now chould be loth to come to zuch wrong:
To be hanged and quartered the grief would be great.
Lob.
A foul evil on thee, Hob! who bid thee on it treat?
Vor it was thou that first did him name.