_Tyb._ My gammer sat her downe on her pes,[668] and bad me reach thy breeches, 30 And by and by (a vengeance in it!) or she had take two stitches To clap a clout upon thine ars, by chaunce asyde she leares, And Gyb, our cat, in the milke pan she spied over head and eares. "Ah, hore! out, thefe!" she cryed aloud, and swapt the breches downe. 34 Up went her staffe, and out leapt Gyb at doors into the towne, And synce that tyme was never wyght cold set their eies upon it. Gogs malison chave (Cocke and I) bid twenty times light on it. _Hodge._ And is not then my breeches sewid up, to morow that I shuld were? _Tyb._ No, in faith, Hodge, thy breeches lie for al this never the nere. _Hodge._ Now a vengeance light on al the sort, that better shold have kept it, 40 The cat, the house, and Tib, our maid, that better shold have swept it! Se where she cometh crawling! Come on, in twenty devils way! Ye have made a fayre daies worke, have you not? pray you, say! The fyrst Acte. The iiii. Sceane. GAMMER. HODGE. TYB. COCKE. _Gammer._ Alas, Hoge, alas! I may well cursse and ban A iv This daie, that ever I saw it, with Gyb and the mylke pan; For these and ill lucke togather, as knoweth Cocke, my boye, Have stacke away my deare neele, and robd me of my joye, My fayre long strayght neele, that was myne onely treasure; 5 The fyrst day of my sorow is, and last end of my pleasure! _Hodge._ Might ha kept it when ye had it! but fooles will be fooles styll. Lose that is vast in your handes ye neede not but ye will. _Gammer._ Go hie the, Tib, and run thou, hoore, to thend here of the towne![669] Didst cary out dust in thy lap; seeke wher thou porest it downe, 10 And as thou sawest me roking, in the ashes where I morned, So see in all the heape of dust thou leave no straw unturned. _Tyb._ That chal, Gammer, swythe and tyte,[670] and sone be here agayne! _Gammer._ Tib, stoope & loke downe to the ground to it, and take some paine. _Hodge._ Here is a prety matter, to see this gere how it goes; 15 By Gogs soule, I thenk you wold loes your ars, and it were loose! Your neele lost, it is pitie you shold lack care and endlesse sorow. Gogs deth! how shall my breches be sewid? Shall I go thus to morow?