Tom Tankard's cow, by Gog's bones! she set me up her sail, And flinging about his half acre, fisking with her tail, As though there had been in her a.r.s.e a swarm of bees, And chad not cried "tphrowh, wh.o.r.e," shea'd leapt out of his lees.

_Diccon._ Why, Hodge, lies the cunning in Tom Tankard's cow's tail?

_Hodge._ Well, ich chave heard some say such tokens do not fail. But canst thou not tell, in faith, Diccon, why she frowns, or whereat?

Hath no man stolen her ducks or hens, or gelded Gib, her cat?

_Diccon._ What devil can I tell, man? I could not have one word!

They gave no more heed to my talk than thou wouldst to a lord.

_Hodge._ Ich cannot skill but muse, what marvellous thing it is.

Chill in and know myself what matters are amiss.

_Diccon._ Then farewell, Hodge, a while, since thou dost inward haste, For I will into the good wife Chat's, to feel how the ale doth taste.

THE FIRST ACT. THE THIRD SCENE.

HODGE, TIB.

_Hodge._ Cham aghast; by the ma.s.s, ich wot not what to do.

Chad need bless me well before ich go them to.

Perchance some felon sprit may haunt our house indeed; And then chwere but a noddy to venture where cha' no need.

_Tib._ Cham worse than mad, by the ma.s.s, to be at this stay!

Cham chid, cham blam'd, and beaten, all th'hours on the day; Lamed and hunger-starved, p.r.i.c.ked up all in jags, Having no patch to hide my back, save a few rotten rags!

_Hodge._ I say, Tib, if thou be Tib, as I trow sure thou be, What devil make-ado is this, between our dame and thee?

_Tib._ Gog's bread, Hodge, thou had a good turn thou wert not here this while! It had been better for some of us to have been hence a mile; My gammer is so out of course and frantic all at once, That c.o.c.k, our boy, and I, poor wench, have felt it on our bones.

_Hodge._ What is the matter--say on, Tib--whereat she taketh so on?

_Tib._ She is undone, she saith; alas! her joy and life is gone!

If she hear not of some comfort, she is, faith! but dead; Shall never come within her lips one inch of meat ne bread.

_Hodge._ By'r lady, cham not very glad to see her in this dump.

Chold a n.o.ble her stool hath fallen, and she hath broke her rump.

_Tib._ Nay, and that were the worst, we would not greatly care For bursting of her huckle-bone, or breaking of her chair; But greater, greater, is her grief, as, Hodge, we shall all feel!

_Hodge._ Gog's wounds, Tib, my gammer has never lost her nee'le?

_Tib._ Her nee'le!

_Hodge._ Her nee'le?

_Tib._ Her nee'le! by him that made me, it is true, Hodge, I tell thee.

_Hodge._ Gog's sacrament! I would she had lost th'heart out of her belly! The devil, or else his dame, they ought her, sure a shame!

How a murrion came this chance, say, Tib! unto our dame?

_Tib._ My gammer sat her down on her pes, and bad me reach thy breeches, And by and by--a vengeance in it! ere she had take two st.i.tches To clout a clout upon thine a.r.s.e, by chance aside she leers, And Gib, our cat, in the milk-pan she spied over head and ears. "Ah, wh.o.r.e! out, thief!" she crief aloud, and swept the breeches down. Up went her staff, and out leapt Gib at doors into the town, And since that time was never wight could set their eyes upon it. Gog's malison chave c.o.c.k and I bid twenty times light on it.

_Hodge._ And is not then my breeches sewed up, to-morrow that I should wear?

_Tib._ No, in faith, Hodge, thy breeches lie for all this never the near.

_Hodge._ Now a vengeance light on all the sort, that better should have kept it, The cat, the house, and Tib, our maid, that better should have swept it! See where she cometh crawling! come on, in twenty devils' way! Ye have made a fair day's work, have you not?

pray you, say!

THE FIRST ACT. THE FOURTH SCENE.

GAMMER, HODGE, TIB, c.o.c.k.

_Gammer._ Alas, Hodge, alas! I may well curse and ban This day, that ever I saw it, with Gib and the milk-pan; For these and ill-luck together, as knoweth c.o.c.k, my boy, Have stack away my dear nee'le, and robbed me of my joy, My fair long straight nee'le, that was mine only treasure; The first day of my sorrow is, and last end of my pleasure!

_Hodge_ (_aside_). Might ha' kept it, when ye had it! but fools will be fools still, Lose that is vast in your hands ye need not but ye will.

_Gammer._ Go hie thee, Tib, and run thou, wh.o.r.e, to th'end here of the town!

Didst carry out dust in thy lap? seek where thou pourest it down; And as thou sawest me roking, in the ashes where I mourned, So see in all the heap of dust thou leave no straw unturned.

_Tib._ That chall, Gammer, swyth and t.i.te, and soon be here again!

_Gammer._ Tib, stoop and look down to the ground to it, and take some pain.

_Hodge._ Here is a pretty matter, to see this gear how it goes: By Gog's soul, I think you would lose your a.r.s.e, and it were loose!

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 G.o.d 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 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 the 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, Where I was looking a long hour, before these folks came here; But, wellaway, all was in vain, my nee'le is never the near!