Tib. My gammer sat her down on her pes,[196] and bad me reach thy breeches,
And by and by, a vengeance in it, ere she had take two stitches,
To clout a clout upon thine arse, by chance aside she leers,
And Gib our cat in the milk-pan she spied over head and ears.
Ah whore, out these, she cried 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 Cock and I bid twenty times light on it.[197]
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.