Lob.
Bum vay, thou Hob, a little would make me ye trim;
Give thee a zwap on thy nose, till thy heart ache.
Hob.
If thou darest, do it; else, man, cry creke:
I trust, before thou hurt me,
With my staff chill make a Lob of thee.
[Here let them fight with their staves, not come near another by three or four yards; the Vice set them on as hard as he can: one of their wives come out, and all to beat the Vice, he run away.
Enter Marian-may-be-good, Hob’s wife, running in with a broom, and part them.
Marian.