Gib (a foul fiend might on her light) lick’d the milk-pan so clean:
See Diccon, ’twas not so well wash’d this seven year, I ween.
A pestilence light on all ill luck, I had thought yet for all this,
Of a morsel of bacon behind the door, at worst I should not miss:
But when I sought a slip to cut, as I was wont to do,
Gog’s souls, Diccon, Gib our cat had eat the bacon too.’
Hodge’s difficulty in making Diccon understand what the needle is which his dame has lost, shows his superior acquaintance with the conveniences and modes of abridging labour in more civilised life, of which the other had no idea.
‘Hodge. Has she not gone, trowest now thou, and lost her neele?’ [So it is called here.]
‘Dic. (says staring). Her eel, Hodge! Who fished of late? That was a dainty dish.’
Hodge. Tush, tush, her neele, her neele, her neele, man, ’tis neither flesh nor fish: