Of a morsell of bacon behynde the dore at worst shuld not misse:
But when ich sought a slyp to cut, as ich was wont to do,
Gogs soule, Diccon! Gyb, our cat, had eate the bacon to! 30
(Which bacon Diccon stole, as is declared before.)
Diccon. Ill luck, quod he! mary, swere it, Hodge! this day, the trueth to tel,
Thou rose not on thy ryght syde, or else blest thee not wel.
Thy milk slopt up! thy bacon filtched! that was to bad luck, Hodg!
Hodge. Nay, nay, ther was a fowler fault, my Gammer ga me the dodge;[679]
Seest not how cham rent and torn, my heels, my knees, and my breech? 35
Chad thought, as ich sat by the fire, help here and there a stitch: