Thy milk slopped up! thy bacon filched! that was too bad luck, Hodge.
Hodge. Nay, nay, there was a fouler fault, my Gammer ga' me the dodge:
Seest not how cham rent and torn, my heels, my knees, and my breech?
Chad thought, as ich sat by the fire, help here and there a stitch;
But there ich was pouped indeed.
Diccon. Why, Hodge?
Hodge. Boots not, man, to tell,
Cham so drest amongst a sort of fools, chad better be in hell,
My Gammer (cham ashamed to say) by God, served me not well.
Diccon. How so, Hodge?