DICCON. Then go to, Lay thine hand here, say after me, as thou shalt hear me do. Hast no book?
DICCON. Then needs must force us both, Upon my breech to lay thine hand, and there to take thine oath.
HODGE. I, Hodge breechless, Swear to Diccon rechless By the cross that I shall kiss, To keep his counsel close, And always me to dispose To work that his pleasure is. [_Here he kisseth Diccon's breech._
DICCON. Now, Hodge, see thou take heed, And do as I thee bid; For so I judge it meet, This needle again to win, There is no shift therein, But conjure up a spreet.
HODGE. What the great devil, Diccon, I say?
DICCON. Yea, in good faith, that is the way, Fet[214] with some pretty charm.
HODGE. Soft, Diccon, be not too hasty yet, By the mass, for ich begin to sweat, Cham afraid of some[215] harm.
DICCON. Come hither then, and stir thee not One inch out of this circle plat, But stand, as I thee teach.
HODGE. And shall ich be here safe from their claws?
DICCON. The master-devil with his long paws Here to thee cannot reach-- Now will I settle me to this gear.
HODGE. I say, Diccon, hear me, hear: Go softly to this matter.
DICCON. What devil, man, art afraid of nought?
HODGE. Canst not tarry a little thought Till ich make a courtesy of water?[216]
DICCON. Stand still to it, why shouldest thou fear him?
HODGE. Gog's sides, Diccon, me-think ich hear him, And tarry, chall mar all.
DICCON. The matter is no worse than I told it.
HODGE. By the mass, cham able no longer to hold it: So[217] bad, ich must beray the hall.
DICCON. Stand to it, Hodge, stir not, you whoreson. What devil, be thine arse-strings brusten? Thyself a while but stay, The devil (I smell him) will be here anon.
HODGE. Hold him fast, Diccon, cham gone, cham gone, Chill not be at that fray.
DICCON. Fie, shitten knave, and out upon thee! Above all other louts, fie on thee! Is not here a cleanly prank? But thy matter was no better, Nor thy presence here no sweeter, To fly I con[218] thee thank.[219] Here is a matter worthy glosing[220] Of Gammer Gurton's needle losing, And a foul piece of wark: A man, I think, might make a play And need no word to this they say, Being but half a clerk. Soft, let me alone, I will take the charge This matter further to enlarge Within a time short; If ye will mark my toys, and note, I will give ye leave to cut my throat If I make no good sport. Dame Chat, I say, where be ye within?