Cha byt no byt this lyvelonge daie, no crome come in my head:
My gutts they yawle-crawle, and all my belly rumbleth;
The puddynges[677] cannot lye still, each one over other tumbleth. 20
By Gogs harte, cham so vexte, and in my belly pende,
Chould one peece were at the spittlehouse, another at the castelle ende!
Diccon. Why, Hodge, was there none at home thy dinner for to set?
Hodge. Gogs[678] bread, Diccon, ich came to late, was nothing there to get!
Gib (a fowle feind might on her light!) lickt the milke pan so clene, 25
See, Diccon, twas not so well washt this seven yere, as ich wene!
A pestilence light on all ill lucke! chad thought, yet for all thys