Diccon. Yea, marry, sir, thus much I can say well, the nee'le is lost.
Baily. Nay, canst not thou tell which way that needle may be found?
Diccon. No, by my fay, sir, though I might have an hundred pound.
Hodge. Thou liar lickdish, didst not say the nee'le would be gotten?
Diccon. No, Hodge; by the same token you were that time beshitten,
For fear of hobgoblin—you wot well what I mean,
As long as it is since, I fear me yet ye be scarce clean.
Baily. Well, Master Rat, you must both learn and teach us to forgive,
Since Diccon hath confession made, and is so clean shreve: