Bot ca[n]st thou not tell,[664] in faith, Diccon, why she frownes, or wher at?
Hath no man stolne her ducks or hen[n]es, or gelded Gyb, her cat?
Diccon. What devyll can I tell, man? I cold not have one word!
They gave no more hede to my talk than thow woldst to a lorde.
Hodge. Iche cannot styll but muse, what mervaylous thinge it is.
Chyll in and know my selfe what matters are amys. 42
Diccon. Then fare well, Hodge, a while, synce thou doest inward hast,
For I will into the good wyfe Chats, to feele how the ale doth taste.
The fyrst Acte. The thyrd Sceane.
Hodge. Tyb.