How a murryon came this chaunce, say, Tib! unto our dame?
Tyb. My gammer sat her downe on her pes,[668] and bad me reach thy breeches, 30
And by and by (a vengeance in it!) or she had take two stitches
To clap a clout upon thine ars, by chaunce asyde she leares,
And Gyb, our cat, in the milke pan she spied over head and eares.
"Ah, hore! out, thefe!" she cryed aloud, and swapt the breches downe. 34
Up went her staffe, and out leapt Gyb at doors into the towne,
And synce that tyme was never wyght cold set their eies upon it.
Gogs malison chave (Cocke and I) bid twenty times light on it.
Hodge. And is not then my breeches sewid up, to morow that I shuld were?