Tyb. Gogs breade, Hodg, thou had a good turne thou wart not here [this while]! A iii b
It had been better for some of us to have ben hence a myle;
My gammer is so out of course and frantyke all at ones,
That Cocke, our boy, and I, poore wench, have felt it on our bones.
Hodge. What is the matter—say on, Tib—wherat she taketh so on? 15
Tyb. She is undone, she sayth, alas! her joye and life is gone!
If shee here not of some comfort, she is, fayth![665] but dead;
Shal never come within her lyps one inch of meate ne bread.
Hodge. Byr Ladie, cham not very glad to see her in this dumpe.
Cholde[666] a noble her stole hath fallen, & shee hath broke her rumpe. 20