in th' early morning towards the poultry yard.

JOHN. Nor broke bread, nor scarce got a drop of drink to wet th'
insides of we.

GILES. 'Tis very little further that you have got to journey, my
good lads. We are nigh to the end of our wayfaring.

GEORGE. And what sort of a place be we a-coming to, master?

GILES. 'Tis the place out of all the world to me.

JOHN. I count 'tis sommat rare and fine in that case, seeing as we
be come from brave foreign parts, master.

GILES. 'Tis rarer, and finer than all the foreign lands that lie
beneath the sun, my lads.

GEORGE. That's good hearing, master. And is the victuals like to be
as fine as the place?

GILES. O, you'll fare well enough yonder.

JOHN. I was never one for foreign victuals, nor for the drink that
was over there neither.

GILES. Well, the both of you shall rest this night beneath the
grandest roof that ever sheltered a man's head. And you shall sit at
a table spread as you've not seen this many a year.