_Hodge._ Your nee'le lost? it is pity you should lack care and
endless sorrow.
Gog's death, how shall my breeches be sewed? Shall I go thus
to-morrow?

_Gammer._ Ah, Hodge, Hodge, if that ich could find my nee'le, by
the reed,
Ch'ould sew thy breeches, ich promise thee, with full good
double thread,
And set a patch on either knee should last this moneths twain.
Now God and good Saint Sithe, I pray to send it home again.

_Hodge._ Whereto served your hands and eyes, but this your nee'le
to keep?
What devil had you else to do? ye keep, ich wot, no sheep.
Cham[50] fain abroad to dig and delve, in water, mire and clay,
Sossing and possing in the dirt still from day to day.
A hundred things that be abroad cham set to see them well:
And four of you sit idle at home and cannot keep a nee'le!

_Gammer._ My nee'le, alas, ich lost it, Hodge, what time ich me up
hasted
To save milk set up for thee, which Gib our cat hath wasted.

_Hodge._ The devil he burst both Gib and Tib, with all the rest;
Cham always sure of the worst end, whoever have the best.
Where ha' you been fidging abroad, since you your nee'le lost?

_Gammer._ Within the house, and at the door, sitting by this same
post;