Tib. That chall, Gammer, swyth and tite,[199] 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 arse, 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,