Chat. What, was he fet out of the hens ruste? 40
Diccon. I can not tel where the devil he was kept, under key or locke;
But Tib hath tykled in Gammers eare, that you shoulde steale the cocke.
Chat. Have I, stronge hoore? by bread and salte!—
Diccon. What, softe, I say, be styl!
Say not one word for all this geare.
Chat. By the masse, that I wyl!
I wil have the yong hore by the head, & the old trot by the throte. 45
Diccon. Not one word, Dame Chat, I say; not one word, for my cote!
Chat. Shall such a begars brawle[684] as that, thinkest thou, make me a theefe?