Gammer. Sir reverence of your masterdom, and you were out a-door,
Chould be so bold, for all her brags, to call her arrant whore.
And ich knew Hodge as bad as t' ou, ich wish me endless sorrow,
And chould not take the pains to hang him up before to-morrow.
Chat. What have I stolen from thee or thine, thou ill-favor'd old trot?
Gammer. A great deal more (by God's blest) than chever by thee got,
That thou knowest well, I need not say it.
Baily. Stop there, I say,
And tell me here, I pray you, this matter by the way:
How chance Hodge is not here? him would I fain have had.