She stooped me down, and up she took up a needle or a pin,
I durst be sworn it was even yours, by all my mother's kin.
Gammer. It was my nee'le, Diccon, ich wot; for here even by this post
Ich sat, what time as ich up start, and so my nee'le ich lost:
Who was it, leve son?[236] speak, ich pray thee, and quickly tell me that.
Diccon. A subtle quean as any in this town, your neighbour here, dame Chat.
Gammer. Dame Chat! Diccon, let me be gone: chill thither in post haste.
Diccon. Take my counsel yet, ere ye go, for fear ye walk in waste,
It is a murrain crafty drab, and froward to be pleased,
And ye take not the better way, your[237] needle yet ye lose: