_Hodge._ Bootes not, man, to tell. Cham so drest amongst a sorte of fooles, chad better be in hell. My gammer (cham ashamed to say), by God, served me not weele. _Diccon._ How so, Hodge? _Hodge._ Has she not gone, trowest now, and lost her neele? _Diccon._ Her eele, Hodge? Who fysht of late? That was a dainty dysh! 41 _Hodge._ Tush, tush, her neele, her neele, her neele, man! tis neither flesh nor fysh; A lytle thing with an hole in the end, as bright as any syller, Small, longe, sharpe at the poynt, and straight as any pyller. _Diccon._ I know not what a devil thou meenst, thou bringst me more in doubt. 45 _Hodge._ Knowst not with what Tom Tailers man sits broching throughe a clout? A neele, a neele, a neele! my gammer's neele is gone. _Diccon._ Her neele, Hodge? now I smel thee! that was a chaunce alone! By the masse, thou hast a shamefull losse, and it wer but for thy breches. _Hodge._ Gogs soule, man, chould give a crown chad it but three stitches. 50 _Diccon._ How sayest thou, Hodge? What shuld he have, again thy nedle got? _Hodge._ Bern vathers soule, and chad it, chould give him a new grot. _Diccon._ Canst thou keep counsaile in this case? _Hodge._ Else chwold my tonge[681] were out. _Diccon._ Do than but then by my advise, and I will fetch it without doubt. _Hodge._ Chyll runne, chyll ryde, chyll dygge, chyl delve, chill toyle, chill trudge, shalt see; 55 Chill hold, chil drawe, chil pull, chill pynche, chill kneele on my bare knee; Chill scrape, chill scratche, chill syfte, chill seeke, chill bowe, chill bende, chill sweate, Chill stoop, chil stur, chil cap, chil knele, chil crepe on hands and feete; Chill be thy bondman, Diccon, ich sweare by sunne and moone. And channot sumwhat to stop this gap, cham utterly undone! 60 (_Pointing behind to his torne breeches._) _Diccon._ Why, is there any special cause thou takest hereat such sorow? _Hodge._ Kirstian Clack, Tom Simpsons maid, by the masse, coms hether to morow, Cham not able to say, betweene us what may hap; She smyled on me the last Sunday, when ich put of my cap. _Diccon._ Well, Hodge, this is a matter of weight, and must be kept close, 65 It might els turne to both our costes, as the world now gose. Shalt sware to be no blab, Hodge! _Hodge._ Chyll, Diccon. _Diccon._ Then go to, Lay thine hand here; say after me as thou shal here me do. Haste no booke? _Hodge._ Cha no booke, I!