Dog. It shall concern thee and thy love’s purchase.
 There is a gallant rival loves the maid,
 And likely is to have her. Mark what a mischief,
 Before the morris ends, shall light on him!

Cud. O, sweet ningle, thy neuf[437] once again; friends must part for a time. Farewell, with this remembrance; shalt have bread too when we meet again. If ever there were an honest devil, ’twill be the Devil of Edmonton,[438] I see. Farewell, Tom; I prithee dog me as soon as thou canst. [Exit.

Dog. I’ll not miss thee, and be merry with thee.
 Those that are joys denied must take delight
 In sins and mischiefs; ’tis the devil’s right. [Exit.

SCENE II.—The neighbourhood of Edmonton.

Enter Frank Thorney and Winnifred in boy’s clothes.

Frank. Prithee no more! those tears give nourishment
 To weeds and briers in me, which shortly will
 O’ergrow and top my head; my shame will sit
 And cover all that can be seen of me.
Win. I have not shown this cheek in company;
 Pardon me now: thus singled with yourself,
 It calls a thousand sorrows round about,
 Some going before, and some on either side,
 But infinite behind; all chained together:
 Your second adulterous marriage leads;
 That is the sad eclipse, th’ effects must follow,
 As plagues of shame, spite, scorn, and obloquy.
Frank. Why, hast thou not left one hour’s patience
 To add to all the rest? one hour bears us
 Beyond the reach of all these enemies:
 Are we not now set forward in the flight,
 Provided with the dowry of my sin[439]
 To keep us in some other nation?
 While we together are, we are at home
 In any place.
Win. ’Tis foul ill-gotten coin,
 Far worse than usury or extortion.
Frank. Let
 My father, then, make the restitution,
 Who forced me to take the bribe: it is his gift
 And patrimony to me; so I receive it.
 He would not bless, nor look a father on me,
 Until I satisfied his angry will:
 When I was sold, I sold myself again—
 Some knaves have done’t in lands, and I in body—
 For money, and I have the hire. But, sweet, no more,
 ’Tis hazard of discovery, our discourse;
 And then prevention takes off all our hopes:
 For only but to take her leave of me
 My wife is coming.
Win. Who coming? your wife!
Frank. No, no; thou art here: the woman—I knew
 Not how to call her now; but after this day
 She shall be quite forgot and have no name
 In my remembrance. See, see! she’s come.

Enter Susan.

Go lead
 The horses to th’ hill’s top; there I’ll meet thee.
Sus. Nay, with your favour let him stay a little;
 I would part with him too, because he is
 Your sole companion; and I’ll begin with him,
 Reserving you the last.
Frank. Ay, with all my heart.
Sus. You may hear, if’t please you, sir.
Frank. No, ’tis not fit:
 Some rudiments, I conceive, they must be,
 To overlook my slippery footings: and so—
Sus. No, indeed, sir.
Frank. Tush, I know it must be so,
 And it is necessary: on! but be brief. [Walks forward.
Win. What charge soe’er you lay upon me, mistress,
 I shall support it faithfully—being honest—
 To my best strength.
Sus. Believe’t shall be no other.
 I know you were commended to my husband
 By a noble knight.
Win. O, gods! O, mine eyes!
Sus. How now! what ail’st thou, lad?
Win. Something hit mine eye,—it makes it water still,—
 Even as you said “commended to my husband.”—
 Some dor[440] I think it was.—I was, forsooth,
 Commended to him by Sir Arthur Clarington.
Sus. Whose servant once my Thorney was himself.
 That title, methinks, should make you almost fellows;
 Or at the least much more than a servant;
 And I am sure he will respect you so.
 Your love to him, then, needs no spur from me,
 And what for my sake you will ever do,
 ’Tis fit it should be bought with something more
 Than fair entreats; look! here’s a jewel for thee,
 A pretty wanton label for thine ear;
 And I would have it hang there, still to whisper
 These words to thee, “Thou hast my jewel with thee.”
 It is but earnest of a larger bounty,
 When thou return’st with praises of thy service,
 Which I am confident thou wilt deserve.
 Why, thou art many now besides thyself:
 Thou mayst be servant, friend, and wife to him;
 A good wife is them all. A friend can play
 The wife and servant’s part, and shift enough;
 No less the servant can the friend and wife:
 ’Tis all but sweet society, good counsel,
 Interchanged loves, yes, and counsel-keeping.
Frank. Not done yet?
Sus. Even now, sir.
Win. Mistress, believe my vow; your severe eye,
 Were’t present to command, your bounteous hand,
 Were it then by to buy or bribe my service,
 Shall not make me more dear or near unto him
 Than I shall voluntary. I’ll be all your charge,
 Servant, friend, wife to him.
Sus. Wilt thou?
 Now blessings go with thee for’t! courtesies
 Shall meet thee coming home.
Win. Pray you say plainly,
 Mistress, are you jealous of him? if you be,
 I’ll look to him that way too.
Sus. Say’st thou so?
 I would thou hadst a woman’s bosom now;
 We have weak thoughts within us. Alas,
 There’s nothing so strong in us as suspicion;
 But I dare not, nay, I will not think
 So hardly of my Thorney.
Win. Believe it, mistress,
 I’ll be no pander to him; and if I find
 Any loose lubric scapes in him, I’ll watch him,
 And at my return protest I’ll show you all:
 He shall hardly offend without my knowledge.
Sus. Thine own diligence is that I press,
 And not the curious eye over his faults.
 Farewell: if I should never see thee more,
 Take it for ever.
Frank. Prithee take that along with thee, [Handing his sword to Winnifred.] and haste thee
 To the hill’s top; I’ll be there instantly.
Sus. No haste, I prithee; slowly as thou canst— [Exit Winnifred.
 Pray let him obey me now; ’tis happily
 His last service to me: my power is e’en
 A-going out of sight.
Frank. Why would you delay?
 We have no other business now but to part.
Sus. And will not that, sweetheart, ask a long time?
 Methinks it is the hardest piece of work
 That e’er I took in hand.
Frank. Fie, fie! why, look,
 I’ll make it plain and easy to you—farewell! [Kisses her.
Sus. Ah, ’las, I’m not half perfect in it yet;
 I must have it read o’er an hundred times:
 Pray you take some pains; I confess my dulness.
Frank. [Aside.] What a thorn this rose grows on! Parting were sweet;
 But what a trouble ’twill be to obtain it!—
 Come, again and again, farewell!—[Kisses her.] Yet wilt return?
 All questions of my journey, my stay, employment,
 And revisitation, fully I have answered all;
 There’s nothing now behind but—nothing.
Sus. And
 That nothing is more hard than anything,
 Than all the everythings. This request—
Frank. What is’t?

Sus. That I may bring you through one pasture more
 Up to yon knot of trees; amongst those shadows
 I’ll vanish from you, they shall teach me how.
Frank. Why, ’tis granted; come, walk, then.
Sus. Nay, not too fast:
 They say slow things have best perfection;
 The gentle shower wets to fertility,
 The churlish storm may mischief with his bounty;
 The baser beasts take strength even from the womb,
 But the lord lion’s whelp is feeble long. [Exeunt.

SCENE III.—A Field with a clump of trees.

Enter the Dog.

Dog. Now for an early mischief and a sudden!
 The mind’s about it now; one touch from me
 Soon sets the body forward.

Enter Frank and Susan.

Frank. Your request
 Is out; yet will you leave me?
Sus. What? so churlishly?
 You’ll make me stay for ever,
 Rather than part with such a sound from you.
Frank. Why, you almost anger me. Pray you be gone.
 You have no company, and ’tis very early;
 Some hurt may betide you homewards.
Sus. Tush! I fear none;
 To leave you is the greatest hurt I can suffer:
 Besides, I expect your father and mine own
 To meet me back, or overtake me with you;
 They began to stir when I came after you
 I know they’ll not be long.

Frank. So! I shall have more trouble,—[The Dog rubs against him]—thank you for that:[441]
 [Aside.] Then I’ll ease all at once. It is done now;
 What I ne’er thought on.—You shall not go back.
Sus. Why, shall I go along with thee? sweet music!
Frank. No, to a better place.
Sus. Any place I;
 I’m there at home where thou pleasest to have me.
Frank. At home? I’ll leave you in your last lodging;
 I must kill you.
Sus. O, fine! you’d fright me from you.
Frank. You see I had no purpose; I’m unarmed;
 ’Tis this minute’s decree, and it must be:
 Look, this will serve your turn. [Draws a knife.
Sus. I’ll not turn from it,
 If you be earnest, sir; yet you may tell me
 Wherefore you’ll kill me.
Frank. Because you are a whore.
Sus. There’s one deep wound already; a whore!
 ’Twas ever further from me than the thought
 Of this black hour; a whore?
Frank. Yes, I’ll prove it,
 And you shall confess it. You are my whore.
 No wife of mine; the word admits no second.
 I was before wedded to another; have her still.
 I do not lay the sin unto your charge,
 ’Tis all mine own: your marriage was my theft,
 For I espoused your dowry, and I have it.
 I did not purpose to have added murder;
 The devil did not prompt me till this minute:
 You might have safe returned; now you cannot.
 You have dogged your own death. [Stabs her.
Sus. And I deserve it;
 I’m glad my fate was so intelligent:
 ’Twas some good spirit’s motion. Die? O, ’twas time!
 How many years might I have slept in sin,
 The sin of my most hatred, too, adultery!
Frank. Nay, sure, ’twas likely that the most was past;
 For I meant never to return to you
 After this parting.
Sus. Why, then, I thank you more;
 You have done lovingly, leaving yourself,
 That you would thus bestow me on another.
 Thou art my husband, Death, and I embrace thee
 With all the love I have. Forget the stain
 Of my unwitting sin; and then I come
 A crystal virgin to thee: my soul’s purity
 Shall with bold wings ascend the doors of Mercy;
 For Innocence is ever her companion.
Frank. Not yet mortal? I would not linger you,
 Or leave you a tongue to blab. [Stabs her again.
Sus. Now Heaven reward you ne’er the worse for me!
 I did not think that Death had been so sweet,
 Nor I so apt to love him. I could ne’er die better,
 Had I stayed forty years for preparation;
 For I’m in charity with all the world.
 Let me for once be thine example, Heaven;
 Do to this man as I him free forgive,
 And may he better die and better live. [Dies.
Frank. ’Tis done; and I am in! Once past our height,
 We scorn the deep’st abyss. This follows now,
 To heal her wounds by dressing of the weapon.[442]
 Arms, thighs, hands, any place; we must not fail [Wounds himself.
 Light scratches, giving such deep ones: the best I can
 To bind myself to this tree. Now’s the storm,
 Which if blown o’er, many fair days may follow.

[Binds himself to a tree; the Dog ties him behind and exit.

So, so, I’m fast; I did not think I could
 Have done so well behind me. How prosperous
 And effectual mischief sometimes is!—[Aloud] Help! help!
 Murder, murder, murder!

Enter Carter and Old Thorney.

Car. Ha! whom tolls the bell for?
Frank. O, O!
O. Thor. Ah me!
 The cause appears too soon; my child, my son!
Car. Susan, girl, child! not speak to thy father? ha!
Frank. O, lend me some assistance to o’ertake
 This hapless woman.
O. Thor. Let’s o’ertake the murderers.
 Speak whilst thou canst, anon may be too late;
 I fear thou hast death’s mark upon thee too.
Frank. I know them both; yet such an oath is passed
 As pulls damnation up if it be broke.
 I dare not name ’em: think what forced men do.
O. Thor. Keep oath with murderers! that were a conscience
 To hold the devil in.
Frank. Nay, sir, I can describe ’em,
 Shall show them as familiar as their names:
 The taller of the two at this time wears
 His satin doublet white, but crimson-lined,
 Hose of black satin, cloak of scarlet—
O. Thor. Warbeck,
 Warbeck, Warbeck!—do you list to this, sir?
Car. Yes, yes, I listen you; here’s nothing to be heard.
Frank. Th’ other’s cloak branched[443] velvet, black, velvet-lined his suit.

O. Thor. I have ’em already; Somerton, Somerton!
 Binal revenge all this. Come, sir, the first work
 Is to pursue the murderers, when we have
 Removed these mangled bodies hence.
Car. Sir, take that carcass there, and give me this.
 I will not own her now; she’s none of mine.
 Bob me off with a dumb-show! no, I’ll have life.
 This is my son too, and while there’s life in him,
 ’Tis half mine; take you half that silence for’t.—
 When I speak I look to be spoken to:
 Forgetful slut!
O. Thor. Alas, what grief may do now!
 Look, sir, I’ll take this load of sorrow with me.

Car. Ay, do, and I’ll have this. [Exit Old Thorney with Susan in his arms.] How do you, sir?

Frank. O, very ill, sir.

Car. Yes,
 I think so; but ’tis well you can speak yet:
 There’s no music but in sound; sound it must be.
 I have not wept these twenty years before,
 And that I guess was ere that girl was born;
 Yet now methinks, if I but knew the way,
 My heart’s so full, I could weep night and day. [Exit with Frank.

SCENE IV.—Before Sir Arthur Clarington’s House.

Enter Sir Arthur Clarington, Warbeck, and Somerton.

Sir Arth. Come, gentlemen, we must all help to grace
 The nimble-footed youth of Edmonton,
 That are so kind to call us up to-day
 With an high morris.

War. I could wish it for the best, it were the worst now. Absurdity’s in my opinion ever the best dancer in a morris.

Som. I could rather sleep than see ’em.

Sir Arth. Not well, sir?

Som. ’Faith, not ever thus leaden: yet I know no cause for’t.

War. Now am I beyond mine own condition highly disposed to mirth.

Sir Arth. Well, you may have yet a morris to help both;
 To strike you in a dump, and make him merry.

Enter Sawgut with the Morris-dancers, &c.

Saw. Come, will you set yourselves in morris-ray?[444] the forebell, second-bell, tenor, and great-bell; Maid Marian[445] for the same bell. But where’s the weathercock now? the Hobby-horse?

1st Cl. Is not Banks come yet? What a spite ’tis!

Sir Arth. When set you forward, gentlemen?

1st Cl. We stay but for the Hobby-horse, sir; all our footmen are ready.

Som. ’Tis marvel your horse should be behind your foot.

2nd Cl. Yes, sir, he goes further about; we can come in at the wicket, but the broad gate must be opened for him.

Enter Cuddy Banks with the Hobby-horse, followed by the Dog.

Sit Arth. O, we stayed for you, sir.

Cud. Only my horse wanted a shoe, sir; but we shall make you amends ere we part.

Sir Arth. Ay? well said; make ’em drink ere they begin.

Enter Servants with beer.

Cud. A bowl, I prithee, and a little for my horse; he’ll mount the better. Nay, give me: I must drink to him, he’ll not pledge else. [Drinks.] Here, Hobby [Holds the bowl to the Hobby-horse.]—I pray you: no? not drink! You see, gentlemen, we can but bring our horse to the water; he may choose whether he’ll drink or no. [Drinks again.

Som. A good moral made plain by history.

1st Cl. Strike up, Father Sawgut, strike up.

Saw. E’en when you will, children. [Cuddy mounts the Hobby.]—Now in the name of—the best foot forward! [Endeavours to play, but the fiddle gives no sound.]—How now! not a word in thy guts? I think, children, my instrument has caught cold on the sudden.

Cud. [Aside.] My ningle’s knavery; black Tom’s doing.

All the Clowns. Why, what mean you, Father Sawgut?

Cud. Why, what would you have him do? you hear his fiddle is speechless.

Saw. I’ll lay mine ear to my instrument that my poor fiddle is bewitched. I played “The Flowers in May” e’en now, as sweet as a violet; now ’twill not go against the hair: you see I can make no more music than a beetle of a cow-turd.

Cud. Let me see, Father Sawgut [Takes the fiddle]; say once you had a brave hobby-horse that you were beholding to. I’ll play and dance too.—Ningle, away with it. [Gives it to the Dog, who plays the morris.

All the Clowns. Ay, marry, sir! [They dance.

Enter a Constable and Officers.

Con. Away with jollity! ’tis too sad an hour.—
 Sir Arthur Clarington, your own assistance,
 In the king’s name, I charge, for apprehension
 Of these two murderers, Warbeck and Somerton.
Sir Arth. Ha! flat murderers?
Som. Ha, ha, ha! this has awakened my melancholy.
War. And struck my mirth down flat.—Murderers?
Con. The accusation’s flat against you, gentlemen.—
 Sir, you may be satisfied with this. [Shows his warrant.]—
 I hope you’ll quietly obey my power;
 ’Twill make your cause the fairer.

Som. and War. O, with all our hearts, sir.

Cud. There’s my rival taken up for hangman’s meat; Tom told me he was about a piece of villany.—Mates and morris-men, you see here’s no longer piping, no longer dancing; this news of murder has slain the morris. You that go the footway, fare ye well; I am for a gallop.—Come, ningle. [Canters off with the Hobby-horse and the Dog.

Saw. [Strikes his fiddle, which sounds as before.] Ay? nay, an my fiddle be come to himself again, I care not. I think the devil has been abroad amongst us to-day; I’ll keep thee out of thy fit now, if I can. [Exit with the Morris-dancers.

Sir Arth. These things are full of horror, full of pity.
 But if this time be constant to the proof,
 The guilt of both these gentlemen I dare take
 On mine own danger; yet, howsoever, sir,
 Your power must be obeyed.
War. O, most willingly, sir.
 ’Tis a most sweet affliction; I could not meet
 A joy in the best shape with better will:
 Come, fear not, sir; nor judge nor evidence
 Can bind him o’er who’s freed by conscience.
Som. Mine stands so upright to the middle zone
 It takes no shadow to’t, it goes alone. [Exeunt.

ACT THE FOURTH.

SCENE I.—Edmonton. The Street.

Enter Old Banks and several Countrymen.

Old Banks. My horse this morning runs most piteously of the glanders, whose nose yesternight was as clean as any man’s here now coming from the barber’s; and this, I’ll take my death upon’t, is long of this jadish witch Mother Sawyer.

1st Coun. I took my wife and a serving-man in our town of Edmonton thrashing in my barn together such corn as country wenches carry to market; and examining my polecat why she did so, she swore in her conscience she was bewitched: and what witch have we about us but Mother Sawyer?

2nd Coun. Rid the town of her, else all our wives will do nothing else but dance about other country maypoles.

3rd Coun. Our cattle fall, our wives fall, our daughters fall, and maid-servants fall; and we ourselves shall not be able to stand, if this beast be suffered to graze amongst us.

Enter Hamluc with thatch and a lighted link.

Ham. Burn the witch, the witch, the witch, the witch!

Countrymen. What hast got there?

Ham. A handful of thatch plucked off a hovel of hers; and they say, when ’tis burning, if she be a witch, she’ll come running in.

O. Banks. Fire it, fire it! I’ll stand between thee and home for any danger. [Ham. sets fire to the thatch.

Enter Mother Sawyer running.

M. Saw. Diseases, plagues, the curse of an old woman
 Follow and fall upon you!

Countrymen. Are you come, you old trot?

O. Banks. You hot whore, must we fetch you with fire in your tail?

1st Coun. This thatch is as good as a jury to prove she is a witch.

Countrymen. Out, witch! beat her, kick her, set fire on her!

M. Saw. Shall I be murdered by a bed of serpents? Help, help!

Enter Sir Arthur Clarington and a Justice.

Countrymen. Hang her, beat her, kill her!

Just. How now! forbear this violence.

M. Saw. A crew of villains, a knot of bloody hangmen,
 Set to torment me, I know not why.

Just. Alas, neighbour Banks, are you a ringleader in mischief? fie! to abuse an aged woman.

O. Banks. Woman? a she hell-cat, a witch! To prove her one, we no sooner set fire on the thatch of her house, but in she came running as if the devil had sent her in a barrel of gunpowder; which trick as surely proves her a witch as the pox in a snuffling nose is a sign a man is a whore-master.

Just. Come, come: firing her thatch? ridiculous!
 Take heed, sirs, what you do; unless your proofs
 Come better armed, instead of turning her
 Into a witch, you’ll prove yourselves stark fools.

Countrymen. Fools?

Just. Arrant fools.

O. Banks. Pray, Master Justice What-do-you-call-’em, hear me but in one thing: this grumbling devil owes me I know no good-will ever since I fell out with her.

M. Saw. And break’dst my back with beating me.

O. Banks. I’ll break it worse.

M. Saw. Wilt thou?

Just. You must not threaten her; ’tis against law: Go on.

O. Banks. So, sir, ever since, having a dun cow tied up in my back-side,[446] let me go thither, or but cast mine eye at her, and if I should be hanged I cannot choose, though it be ten times in an hour, but run to the cow, and taking up her tail, kiss—saving your worship’s reverence—my cow behind, that the whole town of Edmonton has been ready to bepiss themselves with laughing me to scorn.

Just. And this is long of her?

O. Banks. Who the devil else? for is any man such an ass to be such a baby, if he were not bewitched?

Sir Arth. Nay, if she be a witch, and the harms she does end in such sports, she may scape burning.

Just. Go, go: pray, vex her not; she is a subject,
 And you must not be judges of the law
 To strike her as you please.

Countrymen. No, no, we’ll find cudgel enough to strike her.

O. Banks. Ay; no lips to kiss but my cow’s—!

M. Saw. Rots and foul maladies eat up thee and thine! [Exeunt Old Banks and Countrymen.

Just. Here’s none now, Mother Sawyer, but this gentleman,
 Myself, and you: let us to some mild questions;
 Have you mild answers; tell us honestly
 And with a free confession—we’ll do our best
 To wean you from it—are you a witch, or no?

M. Saw. I am none.

Just. Be not so furious.
M. Saw. I am none.
 None but base curs so bark at me; I’m none:
 Or would I were! if every poor old woman
 Be trod on thus by slaves, reviled, kicked, beaten,
 As I am daily, she to be revenged
 Had need turn witch.