Small, longe, sharpe at the poynt, and straight as any pyller.
Diccon. I know not what a devil thou meenst, thou bringst me more in doubt. 45
Hodge. Knowst not with what Tom Tailers man sits broching throughe a clout?
A neele, a neele, a neele! my gammer's neele is gone.
Diccon. Her neele, Hodge? now I smel thee! that was a chaunce alone!
By the masse, thou hast a shamefull losse, and it wer but for thy breches.
Hodge. Gogs soule, man, chould give a crown chad it but three stitches. 50
Diccon. How sayest thou, Hodge? What shuld he have, again thy nedle got?
Hodge. Bern vathers soule, and chad it, chould give him a new grot.
Diccon. Canst thou keep counsaile in this case?