Hodge. Up, Gammer, stande on your feete; where is the olde hore? 50
Faith, woulde chad her by the face, choulde cracke her callet crowne!
Gammer. A Hodg, Hodg, where was thy help, when fixen had me downe?
Hodge. By the masse, Gammer, but for my staffe Chat had gone nye to spyl you!
Ich think the harlot had not cared, and chad not com, to kill you.
But shall we loose our neele thus?
Gammer. No Hodge chwarde[705] lothe doo soo, 55
Thinkest thou chill take that at her hand? no, Hodg, ich tell the no!
Hodge. Chold yet this fray wer wel take up, and our neele at home.
Twill be my chaunce else some to kil, wher ever it be or whome!