Diccon. What devyll, man? art afraide of nought?
Hodge. Canst not tarrye a lytle thought
Tyll ich make a curtesie of water? 100
Diccon. Stand still to it; why shuldest thou feare hym?
Hodge. Gogs sydes, Diccon, me thinke ich heare him!
And tarrye, chal mare all!
Diccon. The matter is no worse than I tolde it.
Hodge. By the masse, cham able no longer to holde it! 105
To bad! iche must beray the hall!
Diccon. Stand to it, Hodge! sture not, you horson!