M. Saw. Still vexed! still tortured! that curmudgeon Banks
 Is ground of all my scandal; I am shunned
 And hated like a sickness; made a scorn
 To all degrees and sexes. I have heard old beldams
 Talk of familiars in the shape of mice,
 Rats, ferrets, weasels, and I wot not what,
 That have appeared, and sucked, some say, their blood;
 But by what means they came acquainted with them
 I am now ignorant. Would some power, good or bad,
 Instruct me which way I might be revenged
 Upon this churl, I’d go out of myself,
 And give this fury leave to dwell within
 This ruined cottage ready to fall with age,
 Abjure all goodness, be at hate with prayer,
 And study curses, imprecations,
 Blasphemous speeches, oaths, detested oaths,
 Or anything that’s ill: so I might work
 Revenge upon this miser, this black cur,
 That barks and bites, and sucks the very blood
 Of me and of my credit. ’Tis all one
 To be a witch as to be counted one:
 Vengeance, shame, ruin light upon that canker!

Enter a Black Dog.

Dog. Ho! have I found thee cursing? now thou art
 Mine own.
M. Saw. Thine! what art thou?
Dog. He thou hast so often
 Importuned to appear to thee, the devil.
M. Saw. Bless me! the devil?
Dog. Come, do not fear; I love thee much too well
 To hurt or fright thee; if I seem terrible,
 It is to such as hate me. I have found
 Thy love unfeigned; have seen and pitied
 Thy open wrongs; and come, out of my love,
 To give thee just revenge against thy foes.
M. Saw. May I believe thee?
Dog. To confirm’t, command me
 Do any mischief unto man or beast,
 And I’ll effect it, on condition
 That, uncompelled, thou make a deed of gift
 Of soul and body to me.
M. Saw. Out, alas!
 My soul and body?
Dog. And that instantly,
 And seal it with thy blood: if thou deniest,
 I’ll tear thy body in a thousand pieces.
M. Saw. I know not where to seek relief: but shall I,
 After such covenants sealed, see full revenge
 On all that wrong me?
Dog. Ha, ha! silly woman!
 The devil is no liar to such as he loves:
 Didst ever know or hear the devil a liar
 To such as he affects?
M. Saw. Then I am thine; at least so much of me
 As I can call mine own—
Dog. Equivocations?
 Art mine or no? speak, or I’ll tear—
M. Saw. All thine.
Dog. Seal’t with thy blood.

[She pricks her arm, which he sucks. Thunder and lightning.

See! now I dare call thee mine!
 For proof, command me; instantly I’ll run
 To any mischief; goodness can I none.
M. Saw. And I desire as little. There’s an old churl,
 One Banks—
Dog. That wronged thee, lamed thee, called thee witch.
M. Saw. The same; first upon him I’d be revenged.
Dog. Thou shalt; do but name how.
M. Saw. Go, touch his life.
Dog. I cannot.
M. Saw. Hast thou not vowed? Go, kill the slave!
Dog. I wonnot.
M. Saw. I’ll cancel, then, my gift.

Dog. Ha, ha!
M. Saw. Dost laugh!
 Why wilt not kill him?
Dog. Fool, because I cannot.
 Though we have power, know it is circumscribed
 And tied in limits: though he be curst to thee,
 Yet of himself he’s loving to the world,
 And charitable to the poor: now men that,
 As he, love goodness, though in smallest measure,
 Live without compass of our reach. His cattle
 And corn I’ll kill and mildew; but his life—
 Until I take him, as I late found thee,
 Cursing and swearing—I’ve no power to touch.
M. Saw. Work on his corn and cattle, then.
Dog. I shall.
 The Witch of Edmonton shall see his fall;
 If she at least put credit in my power,
 And in mine only; make orisons to me,
 And none but me.
M. Saw. Say how and in what manner.
Dog. I’ll tell thee: when thou wishest ill,
 Corn, man, or beast wouldst spoil or kill,
 Turn thy back against the sun,
 And mumble this short orison:
 “If thou to death or shame pursue ’em,
 Sanctibicetur nomen tuum.”
M. Saw. “If thou to death or shame pursue ’em,
 Sanctibicetur nomen tuum.”
Dog. Perfect: farewell. Our first-made promises
 We’ll put in execution against Banks. [Exit.
M. Saw. Contaminetur nomen tuum. I’m an expert scholar;
 Speak Latin, or I know not well what language,
 As well as the best of ’em—but who comes here?

Re-enter Cuddy Banks.

The son of my worst foe.

To death pursue ’em,
 Et sanctibicetur nomen tuum.

Cud. What’s that she mumbles? the devil’s paternoster? would it were else!—Mother Sawyer, good-morrow.

M. Saw. Ill-morrow to thee, and all the world that flout
 A poor old woman,
To death pursue ’em,
 And sanctibicetur nomen tuum.

Cud. Nay, good Gammer Sawyer, whate’er it pleases my father to call you, I know you are—

M. Saw. A witch.

Cud. A witch? would you were else i’faith!

M. Saw. Your father knows I am by this.

Cud. I would he did.

M. Saw. And so in time may you.

Cud. I would I might else! But, witch or no witch, you are a motherly woman; and though my father be a kind of God-bless-us, as they say, I have an earnest suit to you; and if you’ll be so kind to ka me one good turn, I’ll be so courteous as to kob[427] you another.

M. Saw. What’s that? to spurn, beat me, and call me witch,
 As your kind father doth?

Cud. My father! I am ashamed to own him. If he has hurt the head of thy credit, there’s money to buy thee a plaster [Gives her money]; and a small courtesy I would require at thy hands.

M. Saw. You seem a good young man, and—[Aside] I must dissemble,
 The better to accomplish my revenge.—
 But—for this silver, what wouldst have me do?
 Bewitch thee?

Cud. No, by no means; I am bewitched already: I would have thee so good as to unwitch me, or witch another with me for company.

M. Saw. I understand thee not; be plain, my son.

Cud. As a pike-staff, mother. You know Kate Carter?

M. Saw. The wealthy yeoman’s daughter? what of her?

Cud. That same party has bewitched me.

M. Saw. Bewitched thee?

Cud. Bewitched me, hisce auribus. I saw a little devil fly out of her eye like a burbolt,[428] which sticks at this hour up to the feathers in my heart. Now, my request is, to send one of thy what-d’ye-call-’ems either to pluck that out, or stick another as fast in hers: do, and here’s my hand, I am thine for three lives.

M. Saw. [Aside] We shall have sport.—Thou art in love with her?

Cud. Up to the very hilts, mother.

M. Saw. And thou wouldst have me make her love thee too?

Cud. [Aside] I think she’ll prove a witch in earnest.—Yes, I could find in my heart to strike her three quarters deep in love with me too.

M. Saw. But dost thou think that I can do’t, and I alone?

Cud. Truly, Mother Witch, I do verily believe so; and, when I see it done, I shall be half persuaded so too.

M. Saw. It is enough: what art can do be sure of.
 Turn to the west, and whatsoe’er thou hear’st
 Or seest, stand silent, and be not afraid.

[She stamps on the ground; the Dog appears, and fawns, and leaps upon her.

Cud. Afraid, Mother Witch!—“turn my face to the west!” I said I should always have a back-friend of her; and now it’s out. An her little devil should be hungry, come sneaking behind me, like a cowardly catchpole, and clap his talons on my haunches—’Tis woundy cold, sure—I dudder and shake like an aspen-leaf every joint of me.

M. Saw. To scandal and disgrace pursue ’em,
 Et sanctibicetur nomen tuum. [Exit Dog.

How now, my son, how is’t?

Cud. Scarce in a clean life, Mother Witch.—But did your goblin and you spout Latin together?

M. Saw. A kind of charm I work by; didst thou hear me?

Cud. I heard I know not the devil what mumble in a scurvy base tone, like a drum that had taken cold in the head the last muster. Very comfortable words; what were they? and who taught them you?

M. Saw. A great learned man.

Cud. Learned man! learned devil it was as soon! But what? what comfortable news about the party?

M. Saw. Who? Kate Carter? I’ll tell thee. Thou knowest the stile at the west end of thy father’s peas-field: be there to-morrow night after sunset; and the first live thing thou seest be sure to follow, and that shall bring thee to thy love.

Cud. In the peas-field? has she a mind to codlings[429] already? The first living thing I meet, you say, shall bring me to her?

M. Saw. To a sight of her, I mean. She will seem wantonly coy, and flee thee; but follow her close and boldly: do but embrace her in thy arms once, and she is thine own.

Cud. “At the stile at the west end of my father’s peas-land, the first live thing I see, follow and embrace her, and she shall be thine.” Nay, an I come to embracing once, she shall be mine; I’ll go near to make at eaglet else. [Exit.

M. Saw. A ball well bandied! now the set’s half won;
 The father’s wrong I’ll wreak upon the son. [Exit.

SCENE II.—Carter’s House.

Enter Carter, Warbeck, and Somerton.

Car. How now, gentlemen! cloudy? I know, Master Warbeck, you are in a fog about my daughter’s marriage.

War. And can you blame me, sir?

Car. Nor you me justly. Wedding and hanging are tied up both in a proverb; and destiny is the juggler that unties the knot. My hope is, you are reserved to a richer fortune than my poor daughter.

War. However, your promise—

Car. Is a kind of debt, I confess it.

War. Which honest men should pay.

Car. Yet some gentlemen break in that point now and then, by your leave, sir.

Som. I confess thou hast had a little wrong in the wench; but patience is the only salve to cure it. Since Thorney has won the wench, he has most reason to wear her.

War. Love in this kind admits no reason to wear her.

Car. Then Love’s a fool, and what wise man will take exception?

Som. Come, frolic, Ned: were every man master of his own fortune, Fate might pick straws, and Destiny go a-wool-gathering.

War. You hold yours in a string, though: ’tis well; but if there be any equity, look thou to meet the like usage ere long.

Som. In my love to her sister Katherine? Indeed, they are a pair of arrows drawn out of one quiver, and should fly at an even length; if she do run after her sister.—

War. Look for the same mercy at my hands as I have received at thine.

Som. She’ll keep a surer compass; I have too strong a confidence to mistrust her.

War. And that confidence is a wind that has blown many a married man ashore at Cuckold’s Haven, I can tell you; I wish yours more prosperous though.

Car. Whate’er your wish, I’ll master my promise to him.

War. Yes, as you did to me.

Car. No more of that, if you love me: but for the more assurance, the next offered occasion shall consummate the marriage; and that once sealed—

Som. Leave the manage of the rest to my care. But see, the bridegroom and bride come; the new pair of Sheffield knives, fitted both to one sheath.

War. The sheath might have been better fitted, if somebody had their due; but—

Car. No harsh language, if thou lovest me. Frank Thorney has done—

War. No more than I, or thou, or any man, things so standing, would have attempted.

Enter Frank Thorney and Susan.

Som. Good-morrow, Master Bridegroom.

War. Come, give thee joy: mayst thou live long and happy
 In thy fair choice!
Frank. I thank ye, gentlemen; kind Master Warbeck,
 I find you loving.
War. Thorney, that creature,—much good do thee with her!—
 Virtue and beauty hold fair mixture in her;
 She’s rich, no doubt, in both: yet were she fairer,
 Thou art right worthy of her. Love her, Thorney;
 ’Tis nobleness in thee, in her but duty.
 The match is fair and equal; the success
 I leave to censure. Farewell, Mistress Bride!
 Till now elected, thy old scorn deride. [Exit.

Som. Good Master Thorney—

Car. Nay, you shall not part till you see the barrels run a-tilt, gentlemen. [Exit with Somerton.

Sus. Why change you your face, sweetheart?
Frank. Who, I? for nothing.
Sus. Dear, say not so; a spirit of your constancy
 Cannot endure this change for nothing.
 I have observed strange variations in you.
Frank. In me?
Sus. In you, sir.
 Awake, you seem to dream, and in your sleep
 You utter sudden and distracted accents,
 Like one at enmity with peace. Dear loving husband,
 If I
 May dare to challenge any interest in you,
 Give me the reason fully; you may trust
 My breast as safely as your own.
Frank. With what?
 You half amaze me; prithee—
Sus. Come, you shall not,
 Indeed you shall not, shut me from partaking
 The least dislike that grieves you; I’m all yours.
Frank. And I all thine.
Sus. You are not, if you keep
 The least grief from me: but I find the cause;
 It grew from me.
Frank. From you?
Sus. From some distaste
 In me or my behaviour: you’re not kind
 In the concealment. ’Las, sir, I am young,
 Silly and plain; more, strange to those contents
 A wife should offer: say but in what I fail,
 I’ll study satisfaction.
Frank. Come; in nothing.
Sus. I know I do; knew I as well in what,
 You should not long be sullen. Prithee, love,
 If I have been immodest or too bold,
 Speak’t in a frown; if peevishly too nice,
 Show’t in a smile: thy liking is the glass
 By which I’ll habit my behaviour.
Frank. Wherefore dost weep now?
Sus. You, sweet, have the power
 To make me passionate as an April-day;
 Now smile, then weep; now pale, then crimson red:
 You are the powerful moon of my blood’s sea,
 To make it ebb or flow into my face,
 As your looks change.
Frank. Change thy conceit, I prithee;
 Thou art all perfection: Diana herself
 Swells in thy thoughts and moderates thy beauty.
 Within thy left eye amorous Cupid sits,
 Feathering love-shafts, whose golden heads he dipped
 In[430] thy chaste breast; in the other lies
 Blushing Adonis scarfed in modesties;
 And still as wanton Cupid blows love-fires,
 Adonis quenches out unchaste desires;
 And from these two I briefly do imply
 A perfect emblem of thy modesty.
 Then, prithee, dear, maintain no more dispute,
 For when thou speak’st, it’s fit all tongues be mute.
Sus. Come, come, these golden strings of flattery
 Shall not tie up my speech, sir; I must know
 The ground of your disturbance.
Frank. Then look here;
 For here, here is the fen in which this hydra
 Of discontent grows rank.
Sus. Heaven shield it! where?
Frank. In mine own bosom, here the cause has root;
 The poisoned leeches twist about my heart,
 And will, I hope, confound me.
Sus. You speak riddles.
Frank. Take’t plainly, then: ’twas told me by a woman
 Known and approved in palmistry,
 I should have two wives.
Sus. Two wives? sir, I take it
 Exceeding likely; but let not conceit hurt you:
 You’re afraid to bury me?
Frank. No, no, my Winnifred.
Sus. How say you? Winnifred! you forget me.
Frank. No, I forget myself!—Susan.
Sus. In what?
Frank. Talking of wives, I pretend Winnifred,
 A maid that at my mother’s waited on me
 Before thyself.
Sus. I hope, sir, she may live
 To take my place: but why should all this move you?
Frank. The poor girl!—[Aside.] she has’t before thee,
 And that’s the fiend torments me.
Sus. Yet why should this
 Raise mutiny within you? such presages
 Prove often false: or say it should be true?
Frank. That I should have another wife?
Sus. Yes, many;
 If they be good, the better.
Frank. Never any
 Equal to thee in goodness.
Sus. Sir, I could wish I were much better for you;
 Yet if I knew your fate
 Ordained you for another, I could wish—
 So well I love you and your hopeful pleasure—
 Me in my grave, and my poor virtues added
 To my successor.
Frank. Prithee, prithee, talk not
 Of deaths or graves; thou art so rare a goodness
 As Death would rather put itself to death
 Than murder thee: but we, as all things else,
 Are mutable and changing.
Sus. Yet you still move
 In your first sphere of discontent. Sweet, chase
 Those clouds of sorrow, and shine clearly on me.
Frank. At my return I will.
Sus. Return! ah me!
 Will you, then, leave me?
Frank. For a time I must:
 But how? As birds their young, or loving bees
 Their hives, to fetch home richer dainties.
Sus. Leave me!
 Now has my fear met its effect. You shall not;
 Cost it my life, you shall not.
Frank. Why? your reason?
Sus. Like to the lapwing have you all this while
 With your false love deluded me, pretending
 Counterfeit senses for your discontent;
 And now at last it is by chance stole from you.
Frank. What? what by chance?
Sus. Your pre-appointed meeting
 Of single combat with young Warbeck.
Frank. Ha!
Sus. Even so: dissemble not; ’tis too apparent:
 Then in his look I read it:—deny it not,
 I see’t apparent; cost it my undoing,
 And unto that my life, I will not leave you.
Frank. Not until when?
Sus. Till he and you be friends.
 Was this your cunning?—and then flam me off
 With an old witch, two wives, and Winnifred!
 You’re not so kind, indeed, as I imagined.
Frank. [Aside.] And you are more fond by far than I expected.—
 It is a virtue that attends thy kind—
 But of our business within: and by this kiss,
 I’ll anger thee no more; ’troth, chuck, I will not.
Sus. You shall have no just cause.
Frank. Dear Sue, I shall not. [Exeunt.

ACT THE THIRD.

SCENE I.—The Village Green.

Enter Cuddy Banks with the Morris-dancers.

First Clown. Nay, Cuddy, prithee do not leave us now; if we part all this night, we shall not meet before day.

2nd Cl. I prithee, Banks, let’s keep together now.

Cud. If you were wise, a word would serve; but as you are, I must be forced to tell you again, I have a little private business, an hour’s work; it may prove but an half hour’s, as luck may serve; and then I take horse, and along with you. Have we e’er a witch in the morris?

1st Cl. No, no; no woman’s part but Maid Marian and the Hobby-horse.

Cud. I’ll have a witch; I love a witch.

1st Cl. ’Faith, witches themselves are so common now-a-days, that the counterfeit will not be regarded. They say we have three or four in Edmonton besides Mother Sawyer.

2nd Cl. I would she would dance her part with us.

3rd Cl. So would not I; for if she comes, the devil and all comes along with her.

Cud. Well, I’ll have a witch; I have loved a witch ever since I played at cherry-pit.[431] Leave me, and get my horse dressed; give him oats: but water him not till I come. Whither do we foot it first?

2nd Cl. To Sir Arthur Clarington’s first; then whither thou wilt.

Cud. Well, I am content; but we must up to Carter’s, the rich yeoman; I must be seen on hobby-horse there.

1st Cl. O, I smell him now!—I’ll lay my ears Banks is in love, and that’s the reason he would walk melancholy by himself.

Cud. Ha! who was that said I was in love?

1st Cl. Not I.

2nd Cl. Nor I.

Cud. Go to, no more of that: when I understand what you speak, I know what you say; believe that.

1st Cl. Well, ’twas I, I’ll not deny it; I meant no hurt in’t. I have seen you walk up to Carter’s of Chessum: Banks, were not you there last Shrovetide?

Cud. Yes, I was ten days together there the last Shrovetide.

2nd Cl. How could that be, when there are but seven days in the week?

Cud. Prithee peace! I reckon stila nova as a traveller; thou understandest as a fresh-water farmer, that never sawest a week beyond sea. Ask any soldier that ever received his pay but in the Low Countries, and he’ll tell thee there are eight days in the week[432] there hard by. How dost thou think they rise in High Germany, Italy, and those remoter places?

3rd Cl. Ay, but simply there are but seven days in the week yet.

Cud. No, simply as thou understandest. Prithee look but in the lover’s almanac: when he has been but three days absent, “O,” says he, “I have not seen my love these seven years:” there’s a long cut! When he comes to her again and embraces her, “O,” says he, “now methinks I am in Heaven;” and that’s a pretty step! He that can get up to Heaven in ten days need not repent his journey; you may ride a hundred days in a caroche,[433] and be further off than when you set forth. But, I pray you, good morris-mates, now leave me. I will be with you by midnight.

1st Cl. Well, since he will be alone, we’ll back again and trouble him no more.

All the Clowns. But remember, Banks.

Cud. The hobby-horse shall be remembered. But hark you; get Poldavis, the barber’s boy, for the witch, because he can show his art better than another. [Exeunt all but Cuddy.

Well, now to my walk. I am near the place where I should meet—I know not what: say I meet a thief? I must follow him, if to the gallows; say I meet a horse, or hare, or hound? still I must follow: some slow-paced beast, I hope; yet love is full of lightness in the heaviest lovers. Ha! my guide is come.

Enter the Dog.

A water-dog! I am thy first man, sculler; I go with thee; ply no other but myself. Away with the boat! land me but at Katherine’s Dock, my sweet Katherine’s Dock, and I’ll be a fare to thee. That way? nay, which way thou wilt; thou knowest the way better than I:—fine gentle cur it is, and well brought up, I warrant him. We go a-ducking, spaniel; thou shalt fetch me the ducks, pretty kind rascal.

Enter a Spirit vizarded. He throws off his mask, &c., and appears in the shape of Katherine.

Spir. Thus throw I off mine own essential horror,
 And take the shape of a sweet lovely maid
 Whom this fool dotes on: we can meet his folly,
 But from his virtues must be runaways.
 We’ll sport with him; but when we reckoning call,
 We know where to receive; the witch pays for all. [The Dog barks.

Cud. Ay? is that the watchword? She’s come. [Sees the Spirit.] Well, if ever we be married, it shall be at Barking Church,[434] in memory of thee: now come behind, kind cur.

And have I met thee, sweet Kate?
 I will teach thee to walk so late.

O, see, we meet in metre. [The Spirit retires as he advances.] What! dost thou trip from me? O, that I were upon my hobby-horse, I would mount after thee so nimble! “Stay, nymph, stay, nymph,” singed Apollo.

Tarry and kiss me, sweet nymph, stay;
 Tarry and kiss me, sweet:
 We will to Chessum Street,
 And then to the house stands in the highway.

Nay, by your leave, I must embrace you. [Exit, following the Spirit.

[Within.] O, help, help! I am drowned, I am drowned!

Re-enter Cuddy wet.

Dog. Ha, ha, ha, ha!

Cud. This was an ill night to go a-wooing in; I find it now in Pond’s almanac: thinking to land at Katherine’s Dock, I was almost at Gravesend. I’ll never go to a wench in the dog-days again; yet ’tis cool enough.—Had you never a paw in this dog-trick? a mange take that black hide of yours! I’ll throw you in at Limehouse in some tanner’s pit or other.

Dog. Ha, ha, ha, ha!

Cud. How now! who’s that laughs at me? Hist to him! [The Dog barks.]—Peace, peace! thou didst but thy kind neither; ’twas my own fault.

Dog. Take heed how thou trustest the devil another time.

Cud. How now! who’s that speaks? I hope you have not your reading tongue about you?

Dog. Yes, I can speak.

Cud. The devil you can! you have read Æsop’s fables, then; I have played one of your parts then,—the dog that catched at the shadow in the water. Pray you, let me catechise you a little; what might one call your name, dog?

Dog. My dame calls me Tom.

Cud. ’Tis well, and she may call me Ass; so there’s an whole one betwixt us, Tom-Ass: she said I should follow you, indeed. Well, Tom, give me thy fist, we are friends; you shall be mine ingle:[435] I love you; but I pray you let’s have no more of these ducking devices.

Dog. Not, if you love me. Dogs love where they are beloved; cherish me, and I’ll do anything for thee.

Cud. Well, you shall have jowls and livers; I have butchers to my friends that shall bestow ’em: and I will keep crusts and bones for you, if you’ll be a kind dog, Tom.

Dog. Any thing; I’ll help thee to thy love.

Cud. Wilt thou? that promise shall cost me a brown loaf, though I steal it out of my father’s cupboard: you’ll eat stolen goods, Tom, will you not?

Dog. O, best of all; the sweetest bits those.

Cud. You shall not starve, Ningle[436] Tom, believe that: if you love fish, I’ll help you to maids and soles; I’m acquainted with a fishmonger.

Dog. Maids and soles? O, sweet bits! banqueting stuff those.

Cud. One thing I would request you, ningle, as you have played the knavish cur with me a little, that you would mingle amongst our morris-dancers in the morning. You can dance?

Dog. Yes, yes, any thing; I’ll be there, but unseen to any but thyself. Get thee gone before; fear not my presence. I have work to-night; I serve more masters, more dames than one.

Cud. He can serve Mammon and the devil too.