Save this piece of barley-bread: 'tis a pleasant costly dish!
Diccon. Hail, fellow Hodge, and well[211] to fare with thy meat, if you have any:
But by thy words, as I them smelled, thy daintrels be not many.
Hodge. Daintrels, Diccon! Gog's soul, man, save this piece of dry horsebread,
Chat bit no bit this livelong day, no crumb come in my head:
My guts they yawl, crawl, and all my belly rumbleth,
The puddings cannot lie still, each one over other tumbleth.
By Gog's heart, chain so vexed, and in my belly penn'd,
Chould one piece were at the spital-house, another at the castle's end.
Diccon. Why, Hodge, was there none at home thy dinner for to set?