Tyb. Se, Gammer, Gammer, Gib, our cat, cham afraid what she ayleth;
She standes me gasping behind the doore, as though her winde her faileth:
Now let ich doubt what Gib shuld mean, that now she doth so dote.
Hodge. Hold hether! I chould twenty pound, your neele is in her throte.
Grope her, ich say, me thinkes ich feele it; does not pricke your hand? 5
Gammer. Ich can feele nothing.
Hodge. No, ich know thars not within this land
A muryner cat then Gyb is, betwixt the Tems and Tyne;
Shase as much wyt in her head almost as chave in mine!
Tyb. Faith, shase eaten some thing, that will not easily downe;