Diccon. Not one word, dame Chat, I say, not one word for my coat.
Chat. Shall such a beggar's brawl[228] as that, thinkest thou, make me a thief?
The pox light on her whore's sides, a pestilence and mischief!
Come out, thou hungry needy bitch; O, that my nails be short!
Diccon. Gog's bread, woman, hold your peace, this gear will else pass sport;
I would not for an hundred pound this matter should be known
That I am author of this tale, or have abroad it blown.
Did ye not swear ye would be ruled, before the tale I told?
I said ye must all secret keep, and ye said sure ye would.
Chat. Would you suffer, yourself, Diccon, such a sort to revile you