Diccon. Even now I sawe him last, like a mad man he farde,
And sware by heven and hell he would awreake his sorowe,
And leve you never a hen on live, by eight of the clock to morow;
Therfore marke what I say, and my wordes see that ye trust. 90
Your hens be as good as dead, if ye leave them on the ruste.
Chat. The knave dare as well go hang himself, as go upon my ground.
Diccon. Wel, yet take hede I say, I must tel you my tale round.
Have you not about your house, behind your furnace or leade[723]
A hole where a crafty knave may crepe in for neade? 95
Chat. Yes, by the masse, a hole broke down, even within these two dayes.