Chat. Gog's soul! her cock with the yellow legs, that nightly crowded[226] so just?
Diccon. That cock is stolen.
Chat. What, was he fet out of the hen's roost?
Diccon. I cannot tell where the devil he was kept under key or lock,
But Tib hath tickled in Gammer's ear, that you should steal the cock.
Chat. Have I; strong whore! by bread and salt[227]—
Diccon. What, soft, I say, be still:
Say not one word for all this gear.
Chat. By the mass, that I will,
I will have the young whore by the head and the old trot by the throat.