And when I come not at their call, I only thereby lose,
For I am sure to lack therefore a tithe-pig or a goose.
I warrant you, when truth is known, and told they have their tale,
The matter whereabout I come is not worth a half-pennyworth of ale:
Yet must I talk so sage and smooth, as though I were a gloser
But ere the year come at an end, I shall be sure the loser.
What work ye, Gammer Gurton? know here is your friend Doctor Rat.
Gammer. Ah! good master Doctor, 'ch a troubled, 'ch a troubled you, 'ch wot well that.
Doctor Rat. How do ye, woman? be ye lusty, or be ye not well at ease?