Chat. And th' adst seen him, Diccon, it would have made thee beshit thee
For laughter: the whoreson dolt at last caught up a club,
As though he would have slain the master-devil, Belsabub;
But I set him soon inward.
Diccon. O Lord! there is the thing,
That Hodge is so offended, that makes him start and fling.
Chat. Why, makes the knave any noiling,[283] as ye have seen or heard?
Diccon. Even now I saw him last, like a mad man he far'd,
And sware by heaven and hell, he would a-wreak his sorrow,
And leave you never a hen alive by eight of the clock to-morrow: