Drode his legs vore and catched the hand
And shaked wey might and main.
“I’m glad your Medjesty to zee,
And hope your Medjesty,” quoth he,
“Wull ne’er be mazed again.”
The King is befogged by the Devonshire word:—
“Maz’d, maz’d, what’s maz’d,” then said the King,
“I never heerd of zich a thing.
What’s maz’d, what, what, my lord?”
“Hem,” zed my lord, and blow’d his nose,