Canidia, or the Witches :: :: University of Virginia Library

Tell me without Dissimulation,
Who e're shall read this Execration.
If a rare Martial Soul possess
Thy manly Trunk, that dares to press
Thee bravely forward, to withstand
The Forces of a mighty Band?
If thy stout-Genius could rush
Through a Wood of Pikes, and crush
Whole ordred Files of Men in Steel,
Trample whole Ranks, and never feel
The sting of Fear; if thou dar'st meet
The thundring Culvering, and greet
Whole Canon in the face, out-brave
A showr of Lead, and slight the Grave?

If thou canst do all this, then come,
I'le lead thee to Elysium.
Crown thee with Honour in those Fields
Where Death his fearful Standard wields.
Amidst a Regiment of Shades, tell
Me, if thy Courage would not quell,
When thou discern'st the Face of Hell.
Wilt meet a thousand Deaths? come on,
I'le teach thee but to meet this one.

Should Scipio or Cæsar descry
These in their Trenches, as they lye,
They'd soon remove their Siege, this Sight
Would make their hair to stand upright.
And the Commanders hearts would ake,
For horror, all their joynts would quake.

Oft have I seen in Fenny Bogs
Loathsom heaps of Toads and Frogs:
Adders and Snakes, with Rats and Fries
Of ugly Vermin, Insects, Flies.
I could not choose but admire,
To see them crawling in the Mire.
'T hath made my tender Limbs oft quake,
To see the surface of a Lake
Cover'd with Locusts; but to see
The Stygian Lake come up to me.

To see a Brood of Hellish Hag,
Crawling together in one Quag;
And I so near in the room,
Strange that my Bed was not my Tomb!
O, I did live to see it! But heed,
What drops d'you think my Heart did bleed?
Whither did my chill Blood recoil
For warmth, suppose ye, all that while?

Saw I so many Gorgons, and none
Would please to turn me to a Stone.
Merciless Mercy, to allow
The sight of Death, and not know how
To taste it, Heavens do ye bemoan
My Torments, whilst I all alone
Lay gazing on this Sight, bespread
Your sable Weeds, and strike me dead:
And in compassion of my Fears,
Let fall a doleful showr of Tears.

‘As I'm a Woman, I'le not deny
‘These Fears; but as a Witch, I defie
‘Ten thousand Hells, if I should dye

‘Ten thousand Deaths; as I am a Maid,
‘I scorn to be the least dismay'd.
‘'Tis not my Spirit to fear, but to delight,
‘At what to others were a killing sight.
‘Is it likely a Witch should fear,
‘Or a damn'd Sorceress shed a Tear?

‘No, I never did, nor never meant
‘To shrink the least, when 'twas my intent
‘To fall on any desperate Attempt.
‘To Hell I have been often sent,
‘My Courage can be never spent.

Heav'n frowns, I'm sure, and scowls to view
Dark Hell t'outface her dazling Hue.
And could it choose but stein the Air,
And blind the Sun, and smut the fair
Transparent outside of the Globe,
Mantling the Heavens with Hells black Robe.

O, had you seen what loathsom streams
Of pitchy Fogs; what lazy steams
Went rowling too and fro, and choak't
The purer Air; what stench provok't
The chaster Stars, for n'other end
Their Influences to suspend.

Phœbus then could not domineer,
Nor these Ægyptian Vapours cleer.
When with his scorching Southern heat,
His hot Solstitial Rays did beat
On these opacous Clouds, would they
To his commanding Beams give way?

No, but in scorn and base neglect,
Back to his Face they did reflect.
His now black Sooty Beams again,
Angry at which, he turns his Rein,
To drive backward his fiery Wain.
But was not able; at Mid-day
Quite lost, he could not see his way.
Wondring at this contempt, he wist
Nothing but Hell could this resist.

Wherefore, he must go on, or turn
Beyond his Tropicks, tho all burn.
'Mongst the North-Stars a Track t'enquire,
Ne're trampled by his Steeds of Fire.
At last, he ghest it was his Crime,
Perhaps to b'up before his Time.
But was mista'ne, nor he alone,
The World was out of order thrown.
During that space, the Stars next Night
Thinking to shine, had lost their light.

The Prince of Planets Purblind grew,
Glaring with a strange dusky Hue.
Cerberus, whom Hercules drew
From Hell, when he began to view
The Light, turn'd his head aside,
Sol's Beams not able to abide:
Now, Sol himself his head did shrowd,
Envelop'd in a wat'ry Cloud:
Fearing his stately glittering Grace,
With Stygian darkness to deface.

And yet some Mists in th' air did bake,
And just under his Circle Cake;

Which markt him like his Sister, fair,
But pale and speckled here and there.
Thus for a thrice succeeding Noon,
He appear'd spotted like the Moon.
In short, all things had some Translation,
During this bloody Convocation.