Hodge. Kirstian Clack, Tom Simpsons maid, by the masse, coms hether to morow,
Cham not able to say, betweene us what may hap;
She smyled on me the last Sunday, when ich put of my cap.
Diccon. Well, Hodge, this is a matter of weight, and must be kept close, 65
It might els turne to both our costes, as the world now gose.
Shalt sware to be no blab, Hodge!
Hodge. Chyll, Diccon.
Diccon. Then go to,
Lay thine hand here; say after me as thou shal here me do.
Haste no booke?