The pocks light on her hores sydes, a pestlence and a mischeefe!
Come out, thou hungry nedy bytche! O that my nails be short!
Diccon. Gogs bred, woman, hold your peace! this gere wil els passe sport! 50
I wold not for an hundred pound this mater shuld be knowen,
That I am auctour of this tale, or have abrode it blowen!
Did ye not sweare ye wold be ruled, before the tale I tolde?
I said ye must all secret keepe, and ye said sure ye wolde.
Chat. Wolde you suffer, your selfe, Diccon, such a sort to revile you, 55
With slaunderous words to blot your name, and so to defile you?
Diccon. No, Goodwife Chat, I wold be loth such drabs shulde blot my name;