Gammer. Alas! ich fear it be some crooked pin,
And then farewell Gib, she is undone and lost, all save the skin.
Hodge. 'Tis[271] your nee'le, woman, I say; Gog's soul, give me a knife,
And chill have it out of her maw, or else chall lose my life.
Gammer. What! nay, Hodge, fie, kill not our cat, 'tis all the cats we ha' now.
Hodge. By the mass, dame Chat hase me so moved, ich care not what I kill, ma' God a vow.
Go to then, Tib, to this gear, hold up her tail and take her,
Chill see what devil is in her guts, chill take the pains to rake her.
Gammer. Rake a cat, Hodge! what wouldest thou do?