By the Masse, here is a gasshe, a shamefull hole in deade!
And one stytch teare furder, a man may thrust in his heade.
Diccon. By my fathers soule, Hodge, if I shoulde now be sworne,
I can not chuse but say thy breech is foule betorne, 10
But the next remedye in such a case and hap
Is to plaunche on a piece as brode as thy cap.
Hodge. Gogs soule, man, tis not yet two dayes fully ended
Synce my dame Gurton, chem sure, these breches amended;
But cham made suc[h]e a drudge to trudge at euery neede, 15
Chwold rend it though it were stitched with[662] sturdy pacthreede.