But there ich was powpt[680] indeede.
Diccon. Why, Hodge?
Hodge. Bootes not, man, to tell.
Cham so drest amongst a sorte of fooles, chad better be in hell.
My gammer (cham ashamed to say), by God, served me not weele.
Diccon. How so, Hodge?
Hodge. Has she not gone, trowest now, and lost her neele?
Diccon. Her eele, Hodge? Who fysht of late? That was a dainty dysh! 41
Hodge. Tush, tush, her neele, her neele, her neele, man! tis neither flesh nor fysh;
A lytle thing with an hole in the end, as bright as any syller,