Hodge. See, so cham arrayed[190] with dabbling in the dirt!
She that set me to ditching, ich would she had the squirt.
Was never poor soul that such a life had?
Gog's bones, this vilthy glay has dress'd me too bad.
Gog's soul, see how this stuff tears!
Ich were better to be a bearward, and set to keep bears.
By the mass, here is a gash, a shameful hole indeed,
And one stitch tear further, a man may thrust in his head.
Diccon. By my father's soul, Hodge, if I should now be sworn,
I cannot choose but say thy breech is foul betorn.