An. Alyface. And how doth our old beldame here, Madge
Mumblecrust?
Tib. Talk. Chide and find fault, and threaten to complain.
An. Alyface. To make us poor girls shent[71] to her is small gain.
M. Mumbl. I did neither chide, nor complain, nor threaten.
R. Roister (aside). It would grieve my heart to see one of them beaten.
M. Mumbl. I did nothing but bid her work, and hold her peace.
Tib. Talk. So would I, if you could your clattering cease;
But the devil cannot make old trot hold her tongue.
An. Alyface. Let all these matters pass, and we three sing a song: