University of Virginia Library

Scene III.

Lorel. Maudlin. Douce.
Lor.
Did you heare this? shee wish'd mee at the feind,
With all my presents!

Mau.
A tu luckie end
Shee wishend thee, fowle Limmer! drittie Lowne!
Gud faith, it duills mee that I am thy Mother!
And see, thy Sister scornes thee, for her Brother!
Thou woo thy Love? thy Mistresse? with twa Hedge-hoggs?
A stink and brock? a polcat? out thou houlet!
Thou shoul'dst ha' given her, a Madge-Owle! and then
Tho' hadst made a present o' thy selfe, Owle-spiegle!

Dou.
Why, Mother, I have heard yee bid to give;
And often, as the Cause calls.

Mau.
I know well,
It is a wittie part, sum-times, to give.
But what? to whame? no monsters! nor to maidens!
Hee suld present them with mare pleasand things,
Things naturall, and what all woemen covet
To see: the common Parent of us all!
Which Maids will twire at, 'tween their fingers, thus!
With which his Sire gat him! Hee's gett another!
And so beget posteritie upon her!
This he should do! (false Gelden) gang thy gait
And du thy turnes, betimes: or, I'is gar take
Thy new breikes fra' thee, and thy duiblet tu.
The Talleur, and the Sowter fall undu'
All they ha' made; except thou manlier woo!

Lorell goes out.
Dou.
Gud Mother, gif yow chide him, hee'll du wairs.

Mau.
Hang him: I geif him to the Devills eirs.
But, yee my Douce, I charge yee, shew your sell,
Tu all the Sheep'ards, baudly: gaing amang 'hem.
Be mickell i' their eye, frequent, and fugeand.
And, gif they aske yee of Earine,
Or of these claithes; say, that I ga' hem yee,
And say no more. I ha' that wark in hand,
That web upo' the Luime, fall gar 'hem thinke
By then, they feelin their owne frights, and feares,
I'is pu' the world, or Nature, 'bout their eares.
But, heare yee Douce, bycause, yee may meet mee
In mony shapes tu day; where ere you spie
This browdred belt, with Characters, tis I.
A Gypsan Ladie, and a right Beldame,
Wrought it by Moone-shine for mee, and Star-light,
Upo' your Granams grave, that verie night
Wee earth'd her, in the shades; when our Dame Hecat,
Made it her gaing-night, over the Kirk-yard,
Withall the barke and parish tykes set at her,
While I sate whyrland, of my brasen spindle:
At every twisted thrid my rock let flie
Unto the sew'ster, who did sit me nigh,
Under the towne-turne-pike; which ran each spell
She stitched in the worke, and knit it well.
See, yee take tent to this, and ken 'your Mother.