 | The Witch of Edmonton |  |
Scæn. 1.
Enter Old Banks, and two or three Country-men.O. Bank.
My Horse this morning runs most pitiously of the
Glaunders, whose nose yesternight was as clean as
any Man 's here now coming from the Barbers; and this I'll take
my death upon 't is long of this Jadish Witch, Mother Sawyer.
1.
I took my Wife and a Servingman in our Town of Edmonton,
thrashing in my Barn together, such Corn as Country-VVenches
carry to Market; and examining my Polecat why she did so, she
swore in her conscience she was bewitch'd: and what Witch have
we about us, but Mother Sawyer?
2.
Rid the Town of her, else all our Wives will do nothing else
but dance about other Country May-poles.
3.
Our Cattel fall, our Wives fall, our Daughters fall, and Maid-servants
fall; and we our selves shall not be able to stand, if this
Beast be suffered to graze amongst us.
Enter W. Hamlac, with Thatch and a Link.
Haml.
Burn the Witch, the Witch, the Witch, the Witch.
Omn.
What hast got there?
A handful of Thatch pluck'd off a Hovel of hers: and
they say, when 'tis burning, if she be a VVitch, she'll come running
in.
O. Bank.
Fire it, fire it: I'll stand between thee and home for
any danger.
As that burns, enter the Witch.
Sawy.
Diseases, Plagues; the curse of an old VVoman follow
and fall upon you.
Omn.
Are you come, you old Trot?
O. Bank.
You hot VVhore, must we fetch you with fire in your
tail?
1.
This Thatch is as good as a Jury to prove she is a Witch.
Omn.
Out Witch; beat her, kick her, set fire on her.
Sawy.
Shall I be murthered by a bed of Serpents? help, help!
Enter Sir Arthur Clarington, and a Justice.
Omn.
Hang her, beat her, kill her.
Just.
How now? Forbear this violence.
Sawy.
A crew of Villains, a knot of bloody Hang-men set to
torment me I know not why.
Just.
Alas, neighbour Banks, are you a Ring-leader in mischief?
Fie, to abuse an aged woman!
O. Bank.
VVoman? 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 Divel had sent her in a Barrel of Gunpowder;
which trick as surely proves her a VVitch, 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 arm'd, instead
of turning her into a VVitch, you'll prove your selves starke
Fools.
Omn.
Fools?
Just.
Arrant Fools.
O. Bank.
Pray, Mr. 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.
Sawy.
And brakedst my back with beating me.
O. Bank.
I'll break it worse.
Sawy.
VVilt thou?
You must not threaten her: 'tis against Law. Go on.
O. Bank.
So, Sir, ever since, having a Dun-Cow tied up in my
Back-side, let me go thither, or but cast mine eye at her, and if I
should be hang'd, I cannot chuse, 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 behinde; That the whole Town
of Edmonton has been ready to be-piss themselves with laughing
me to scorn.
Just.
And this is long of her?
O. Bank.
VVho the Devil else? for is any man such an Ass, to be
such a Baby, if he were not bewitch'd?
Sir Art.
Nay, if she be a VVitch, 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.
Omn.
No, no, we'll finde cudgel enough to strike her.
O. Bank.
I, no lips to kiss but my Cows—?
Exeunt.
Sawy.
Rots and foul maladies eat up thee and thine.
Just.
Here's none now, Mother Sawyer, but this Gentleman,
my self and you; let us to some milde Questions, have you milde
Answers? Tell us honestly, and with a free confession, (we'll do
our best to wean you from it) are you a VVitch, or no?
Sawy.
I am none.
Just.
Be not so furious.
Sawy.
I am none. None but base Curs so bark at me. I am
none. Or would I were: if every poor old VVoman be trod on
thus by slaves, revil'd, kick'd, beaten, as I am daily, she to be reveng'd
had need turn VVitch.
Sir Art.
And you to be reveng'd have sold your Soul to th'Devil.
Sawy.
Keep thine own from him.
Just.
You are too sawcie, and too bitter.
Sawy.
Sawcie? by what commission can he send my Soul on the
Divel's Errand, more then I can his? is he a Landlord of my Soul,
to thrust it when he list out of door?
Just.
Know whom you speak to.
Sawy.
A Man: perhaps, no Man. Men in gay clothes, whose
Backs are laden with Titles and Honours, are within far more
crooked then I am; and if I be a VVitch, more VVitch-like.
Y' are a base Hell-hound. And now, Sir, let me tell
you, Far and neer she's bruited for a woman that maintains a Spirit
that sucks her.
Sawy.
I defie thee.
Sir Arth.
Go, go, I can, if need be, bring an hundred voyces
e'en here in Edmonton, that shall lowd proclaim thee for a secret
and pernicious Witch.
Sawy.
Ha, ha!
Just.
Do you laugh? why laugh you?
Sawy.
At my name: the brave name this Knight gives me, Witch.
Just.
Is the Name of Witch so pleasing to thine Ear?
Sir Art.
Pray, Sir, give way, and let her Tongue gallop on.
Sawy.
A Witch? who is not?
Hold not that universal Name in scorne then.
What are your painted things in Princes Courts?
Upon whose Eye-lids Lust sits blowing fires
To burn Mens Souls in sensual hot desires:
Upon whose naked Paps, a Leachers thought
Acts Sin in fouler shapes then can be wrought.
Just.
But those work not as you do.
Sawy.
No, but far worse:
These, by Inchantments, can whole Lordships change
To Trunks of rich Attire: turn Ploughs and Teams
To Flanders Mares and Coaches; and huge trains
Of servitors, to a French Butter-Flie.
Have you not City-witches who can turn
Their husbands wares, whole standing shops of wares,
To sumptuous Tables, Gardens of stoln sin?
In one yeer wasting, what scarce twenty win.
Are not these Witches?
Just.
Yes, yes, but the Law
Casts not an eye on these.
Sawy.
VVhy then on me,
Or any lean old Beldame? Reverence once
Had wont to wait on age. Now an old woman.
Ill favour'd grown with yeers, if she be poor,
Must be call'd Bawd or VVitch. Such so abus'd
Are the course VVitches: t'other are the fine,
Spun for the Devil's own wearing.
Sir Art.
And so is thine.
She on whose tongue a whirlwind sits to blow
A man out of himself, from his soft pillow,
To lean his head on Rocks and fighting waves,
Is not that Scold a Witch? The Man of Law
VVhose honeyed hopes the credulous Client draws,
(As Bees by tinkling Basons) to swarm to him,
From his own Hive, to work the VVax in his;
He is no VVitch, not he.
Sir Art.
But these Men-VVitches
Are not in trading with Hells Merchandize,
Like such as you are, that for a word, a look,
Denial of a Coal of fire, kill Men,
Children and Cattel.
Sawy.
Tell them, Sir, that do so:
Am I accus'd for such an one?
Sir Art.
Yes, 'twill be sworn.
Sawy.
Dare any swear I ever tempted Maiden
VVith golden hooks flung at her chastity,
To come and lose her honour? and being lost,
To pay not a Denier for't? Some slaves have done it.
Men-witches can without the Fangs of Law,
Drawing once one drop of blood, put counterfeit pieces
Away for true Gold.
Sir Art.
By one thing she speaks,
I know now she's a VVitch, and dare no longer
Hold conference with the Fury.
Just.
Let's then away:
Old woman, mend thy life, get home and pray.
Exeunt.
Sawy.
For his confusion. [Enter Dog.]
My dear Tom-boy welcome.
I am torn in pieces by a pack of Curs
Clap'd all upon me, and for want of thee:
Comfort me: thou shalt have the Teat anon.
Dog.
Bough wough: I'll have it now.
Sawy.
I am dri'd up
VVith cursing and with madness; and have yet
No blood to moysten these sweet lips of thine.
Stand on thy hind-legs up. Kiss me, my Tommy,
And rub away some wrinkles on my brow,
Of thy fine tricks. VVhat hast thou done? Let's tickle.
Hast thou struck the horse lame as I bid thee?
Dog.
Yes, and nip'd the sucking-childe.
Sawy.
Ho, ho, my dainty,
My little Pearl. No Lady loves her Hound,
Monkey, or Parakeet, as I do thee.
Dog.
The Maid has been churming Butter nine hours; but it
shall not come.
Sawy.
Let 'em eat Cheese and choak.
Dog.
I had rare sport
Among the Clowns i'th' Morrice.
Sawy.
I could dance
Out of my skin to hear thee. But my Curl-pate,
That Jade, that foul-tongu'd whore, Nan Ratcliff,
VVho for a little Soap lick'd by my Sow,
Struck, and almost had lam'd it; Did not I charge thee,
To pinch that Quean to th'heart?
Dog.
Bough, wough, wough: Look here else.
Enter Anne Ratcliff mad.
Ratc.
See, see, see; the Man i'th' Moon has built a new Windmill,
and what running there 's from all quarters of the City to
learn the Art of Grinding!
Sawy.
Ho, ho, ho! I thank thee, my sweet Mungrel.
Ratc.
Hoyda! a-pox of the Devil's false Hopper! all the golden
Meal runs into the rich Knaves purses, and the poor have nothing
but Bran. Hey derry down! Are not you Mother Sawyer?
Sawy.
No, I am a Lawyer.
Ratc.
Art thou? I prithee let me scratch thy Face; for thy Pen
has flea'd off a great many mens skins. You'll have brave doings
in the Vacation; for Knaves and Fools are at variance in every
Village. I'll sue Mother Sawyer, and her own Sow shall give in
evidence against her.
Sawy.
Touch her.
Ratc.
Oh my Ribs are made of a paynd Hose, and they break.
There's a Lancashire Horn-pipe in my throat: hark how it tickles it,
with Doodle, Doodle, Doodle, Doodle. VVelcome Serjeants:
welcome Devil. Hands, hands; hold hands, and dance a-round,
a-round, a-round.
Enter Old Banks, his Son the Clown, Old Ratcliff, Country-fellows.
O. Ratc.
She's here; alas, my poor wife is here.
Catch her fast, and have her into some close Chamber:
do, for she's as many VVives are, stark mad.
Clow.
The witch, Mother Sawyer, the witch, the devil.
[Car. her off.
O. Ratc.
O my dear VVife! help, Sirs!
O. Bank.
You see your work, Mother Bumby.
Saw.
My work? should she & all you here run mad, is the work mine?
Clow.
No, on my conscience, she would not hurt a Devil of two
yeers old.
How now? what's become of her?
O. Ratc.
Nothing: she's become nothing, but the miserable
trunk of a wretched woman. We were in her hands as Reeds in
a mighty Tempest: spight of our strengths, away she brake; and nothing
in her mouth being heard, but the Devil, the VVitch, the
VVitch, the Devil; she beat out her own brains, and so died.
Clow.
It's any Man's case, be he never so wise, to die when his
brains go a wool-gathering.
O. Banks.
Masters, be rul'd by me; let's all to a Justice. Hag,
thou hast done this, and thou shalt answer it.
Sawy.
Banks, I defie thee.
O. Bank.
Get a VVarrant first to examine her, then ship her to
Newgate: here's enough, if all her other villanies were pardon'd,
to burn her for a VVitch. You have a Spirit, they say, comes to
you in the likeness of a Dog; we shall see your Cur at one time
or other: if we do, unless it be the Devil himself, he shall go howling
to the Goal in one chain, and thou in another.
Sawy.
Be hang'd thou in a third, and do thy worst.
Clow.
How, Father? you send the poor dumb thing howling to
th'Goal? He that makes him howl, makes me roar.
O. Bank.
VVhy, foolish Boy, dost thou know him?
Clow.
No matter, if I do or not. He's baylable I am sure by
Law. But if the Dog's word will not be taken, mine shall.
O. Bank.
Thou Bayl for a Dog?
Clow.
Yes, or a Bitch either, being my Friend. I'll lie by the
heels my self, before Puppison shall: his Dog-days are not come
yet, I hope.
O. Bank.
VVhat manner of Dog is it? didst ever see him?
Clow.
See him? yes, and given him a bone to gnaw twenty
times. The Dog is no Court foysting Hound, that fills his belly
enticing his Master to go a-ducking twice or thrice a
week, whilst his VVife makes Ducks and Drakes at home: this is
no Paris-Garden Bandog neither, that keeps a Bough, wough,
woughing, to have Butchers brings their Curs thither; and when all
comes to all, they run away like Sheep: neither is this the black
Dog of New-gate.
O. Bank.
No, Good-man Son-fool, but the Dog of Hell-gate.
Clow.
I say, Good-man Father-fool, it's a lye.
Omn.
He's bewitch'd.
Clow.
A gross lye as big as my self. The Devil in St. Dunstan's
will as soon drink with this poor Cur, as with any Temple-Bar-Laundress,
that washes and wrings Lawyers.
Dog.
Bough, wough, wough, wough.
Omn.
O the Dog's here, the Dog's here.
O. Bank.
It was the voice of a Dog.
Clow.
The voice of a Dog? if that voice were a Dog's, what
voice had my Mother? so am I a Dog: bough, wough, wough
it was I that bark'd so, Father, to make Cocks-combs of these
Clowns.
O. Bank.
However, we'll be Cocks-comb'd no longer: away
therefore to th'Justice for a Warrant; and then, Gammer Gurton,
have at your Needle of VVitch-craft.
Sawy.
And prick thine own eyes out. Go, peevish Fools.
Exe.
Clow.
Ningle, you had like to have spoyl'd all with your
Boughings. I was glad to put 'em off with one of my Dog-tricks, on
a sudden, I am bewitch'd, little Cost-me-nought, to love thee—a
Pox, that Morrice makes me spit in thy mouth. I dare not stay. Farewel,
Ningle; you whoreson Dogs-note. Farewel Witch.
Exit.
Dog.
Bough, wough, wough, wough.
Sawy.
Minde him not, he's not worth thy worrying: run at a
fairer Game: that fowl-mouth'd Knight, scurvy Sir Arthur, flie at
him, my Tommy; and pluck out 's throat.
Dog.
No, there a Dog already biting 's conscience.
Sawy.
That's a sure Blood-hound. Come, let's home and play.
Our black work ended, we'll make holiday.
Exeunt.
| The Witch of Edmonton | |