Hodge. Has she not gone, trowest now thou, and lost her nee'le?
Diccon. Her eel, Hodge! who fished of late? that was a dainty dish.
Hodge. Tush, tush, her nee'le, her nee'le, her nee'le, man: 'tis neither flesh nor fish,
A little thing with an hole in the end, as bright as any sil'er,
Small, long, sharp at the point, and straight as any pillar.
Diccon. I know not what a devil thou meanest, thou bring'st me more in doubt.
Hodge. Knowest not with what Tom-tailor's man sits broaching through a clout?
A nee'le, a nee'le, a nee'le, my Gammer's nee'le is gone.
Diccon. Her nee'le! Hodge, now I smell thee; that was a chance alone:
By the mass, thou hast a shameful loss, and it were but for thy breeches.