For bursting[195] 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?