Hance. Ic myself cumt from sent Katryn's doxe, mot ic skyne de can beer.
Rem. Get thee thither again, and tarry here no longer!
Hance. Sir! ic mot mid ye spreken; ic myself be en scomaker.
Rem. What and thou be? therewith I have nothing ado.
Hance. Ic dest al forlore; copin is dod, ic maght not do thereto.
Rem. I pray thee, go hence, for thou dost trouble me ill.
Hance. Nen ic seker, ic wil not gon, ic wold fain live hore stil.
Rem. There is too many aliants in this realm; but now I,
Good Remedy, have so provided that Englishmen shall live the better daily.
Hance. What segt ye? by Got's drowse! dai is de quade man;
Be de moro goi, ic myself love de scone Englishman.
Rem. Fie on thee, flattering knave! fie on you aliants all, I say!
Ye can, with craft and subtle figure, Englishmen's wealth away.