Gammer. By Gis,[274] master, cham not sick, but yet chave a disease.
Chad a foul turn now of late, chill tell it you by gigs.
Doctor Rat. Hath your brown cow cast her calf, or your sandy sow her pigs?
Gammer. No, but chad been as good they had, as this, ich wot well.
Doctor Rat. What is the matter?
Gammer. Alas, alas, 'ch a lost my good nee'le.
My nee'le, I say, and wot ye what? a drab came by, and spied it,
And when I asked her for the same, the filth flatly denied it.
Doctor Rat. What was she that—