And some are scatter’d all the floor about; Some leap into the roof withoutë doubt. Though that the fiend not in our sight him shew, I trowë that he be with us, that shrew; 4733 In hellë, where that he is lord and sire, Is there no morë woe, rancoúr, nor ire. When that our pot is broke, as I have said, Every man chides, and holds him evil apaid. 4734 Some said it was long on 4735 the fire-makíng; Some saidë nay, it was on the blowíng (Then was I fear’d, for that was mine offíce); “Straw!” quoth the third, “ye be lewëd and nice, 4736 It was not temper’d 4737 as it ought to be.” “Nay,” quoth the fourthë, “stint 4738 and hearken me; Because our fire was not y-made of beech,