  THE WITCH OF EDMONTON. decoration The Witch of Edmonton, which was probably first performed in 1623, was not published until thirty-five years later, in 1658. It was then issued in the usual quarto form, with the title: The Witch of Edmonton: “A known True Story. Composed into a Tragi-Comedy by divers well-esteemed Poets, William Rowley, Thomas Dekker, John Ford, &c. Acted by the Prince’s Servants, often at the Cock-Pit in Drury-Lane, once at Court, with singular Applause.” The best modern reprint of the play is that in the Gifford-Dyce edition of Ford, upon which the present version is based. It is impossible to assign the exact share of the various authors in the play. The business of the Witch, the rustic chorus, and certain other parts mark themselves out as mainly Dekker’s. The conception of Sir Arthur Clarington, and the subsidiary domestic plot is no doubt mainly Ford’s. Rowley’s share is more difficult to ascertain. The intimate collaboration of all three can alone be held accountable for some of the scenes, and indeed in even the passages most characteristic of any one of the authors, the touch of another often shows itself in a chance word or phrase. The justification for the description of the play as “A known true story” is a pamphlet written by Henry Goodcole, and published at London in 1621, giving an account of one Elizabeth Sawyer, late of Islington, who was “executed in 1621 for witchcraft.” See Caulfield’s “Portraits, Memoirs, and Characters of Remarkable Persons,” 1794. No existing copy of the pamphlet is known, but the British Museum possesses copies of two of Goodcole’s other pamphlets on similar subjects. decoration PROLOGUE. PROLOGUE.The town of Edmonton hath lent the stage MASTER BIRD.A Devil To make comparisons it were uncivil Between so even a pair, a Witch and Devil; But as the year doth with his plenty bring As well a latter as a former spring, So hath this Witch enjoyed the first, and reason Presumes she may partake the other season: In acts deserving name, the proverb says, “Once good, and ever;” why not so in plays? Why not in this? since, gentlemen, we flatter No expectation; here is mirth and matter. decoration The whole argument of the play is this distich. Forced marriage, murder; murder blood requires: Reproach, revenge; revenge hell’s help desires. decoration DRAMATIS PERSONÆ. DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.Sir Arthur Clarington. Old Thorney, a Gentleman. Carter, a Rich Yeoman.
Old Banks, a Countryman. Cuddy Banks, his Son.
Sawgut, an old Fiddler. A Dog, a Familiar. A Spirit. Countrymen, Justice, Constable, Officers, Serving-men and Maids. Mother Sawyer, the Witch. Ann, Ratcliffe’s Wife.
SCENE—The town and neighbourhood of Edmonton; in the end of the last act, London. decoration decoration THE WITCH OF EDMONTON. ACT THE FIRST.SCENE I.—The neighbourhood of Edmonton. A Room in the House of Sir Arthur Clarington.Enter Frank Thorney and Winnifred, who is with child. Frank. Come, wench; why, here’s a business soon dispatched: Thy heart I know is now at ease; thou need’st not Fear what the tattling gossips in their cups Can speak against thy fame; thy child shall know Whom to call dad now. Win. You have here discharged The true part of an honest man; I cannot Request a fuller satisfaction Than you have freely granted: yet methinks ’Tis an hard case, being lawful man and wife, We should not live together. Frank. Had I failed In promise of my truth to thee, we must Have then been ever sundered; now the longest Of our forbearing either’s company For our continuing thrift; that so hereafter The heir that shall be born may not have cause To curse his hour of birth, which made him feel The misery of beggary and want,— Two devils that are occasions to enforce A shameful end. My plots aim but to keep My father’s love. Win. And that will be as difficult To be preserved, when he shall understand How you are married, as it will be now, Should you confess it to him. Frank. Fathers are Won by degrees, not bluntly, as our masters Or wrongÈd friends are; and besides I’ll use Such dutiful and ready means, that ere He can have notice of what’s past, th’ inheritance To which I am born heir shall be assured; That done, why, let him know it: if he like it not, Yet he shall have no power in him left To cross the thriving of it. Win. You who had The conquest of my maiden-love may easily Conquer the fears of my distrust. And whither Must I be hurried? Frank. Prithee do not use A word so much unsuitable to the constant Affections of thy husband: thou shalt live Near Waltham Abbey with thy uncle Selman; I have acquainted him with all at large: He’ll use thee kindly; thou shalt want no pleasures, Nor any other fit supplies whatever Thou canst in heart desire. Win. All these are nothing Without your company. Frank. Which thou shalt have Once every month at least. Win. Once every month! Is this to have an husband? Frank. Perhaps oftener; That’s as occasion serves. Win. Ay, ay; in case No other beauty tempt your eye, whom you Like better, I may chance to be remembered, And see you now and then. Faith, I did hope You’d not have used me so: ’tis but my fortune. And yet, if not for my sake, have some pity Upon the child I go with; that’s your own: And ’less you’ll be a cruel-hearted father, You cannot but remember that. Heaven knows how— Frank. To quit which fear at once, As by the ceremony late performed I plighted thee a faith as free from challenge As any double thought; once more, in hearing Of Heaven and thee, I vow that never henceforth Disgrace, reproof, lawless affections, threats, Or what can be suggested ’gainst our marriage, Shall cause me falsify that bridal oath That binds me thine. And, Winnifred, whenever The wanton heat of youth, by subtle baits Of beauty, or what woman’s art can practise, Draw me from only loving thee, let Heaven Inflict upon my life some fearful ruin! I hope thou dost believe me. Win. Swear no more; I am confirmed, and will resolve to do What you think most behoveful for us. Frank. Thus, then; Make thyself ready; at the furthest house Upon the green without the town, your uncle Expects you. For a little time, farewell! Win. Sweet, We shall meet again as soon as thou canst possibly? Frank. We shall. One kiss—away! [Exit Winnifred. Enter Sir Arthur Clarington. Sir Arth. Frank Thorney! Frank. Here, sir. Sir Arth. Alone? then must I tell thee in plain terms Thou hast wronged thy master’s house basely and lewdly. Frank. Your house, sir? Sir Arth. Yes, sir: if the nimble devil That wantoned in your blood rebelled against All rules of honest duty, you might, sir, Have found out some more fitting place than here To have built a stews in. All the country whispers How shamefully thou hast undone a maid, Approved for modest life, for civil carriage, Till thy prevailing perjuries enticed her To forfeit shame. Will you be honest yet, Make her amends and marry her? Frank. So, sir, I might bring both myself and her to beggary; And that would be a shame worse than the other. Sir Arth. You should have thought on this before, and then Your reason would have overswayed the passion Of your unruly lust. But that you may Be left without excuse, to salve the infamy Of my disgracÈd house, and ’cause you are A gentleman, and both of you my servants, I’ll make the maid a portion. Frank. So you promised me Before, in case I married her. I know Sir Arthur Clarington deserves the credit Report hath lent him, and presume you are A debtor to your promise: but upon What certainty shall I resolve? Excuse me For being somewhat rude. Sir Arth. It is but reason. Well, Frank, what think’st thou of two hundred pounds And a continual friend? Frank. Though my poor fortunes Might happily prefer me to a choice Of a far greater portion, yet, to right A wrongÈd maid and to preserve your favour, I am content to accept your proffer. Sir Arth. Art thou? Frank. Sir, we shall every day have need to employ The use of what you please to give. Sir Arth. Thou shall have’t. Frank. Then I claim Your promise.—We are man and wife. Sir Arth. Already? Frank. And more than so, sir, I have promised her Free entertainment in her uncle’s house Near Waltham Abbey, where she may securely Sojourn, till time and my endeavours work My father’s love and liking. Sir Arth. Honest Frank! Frank. I hope, sir, you will think I cannot keep her Without a daily charge. Sir Arth. As for the money, ’Tis all thine own! and though I cannot make thee A present payment, yet thou shalt be sure I will not fail thee. Frank. But our occasions— Sir Arth. Nay, nay, Talk not of your occasions; trust my bounty; It shall not sleep.—Hast married her, i’faith, Frank? ’Tis well, ’tis passing well!—then, Winnifred, Once more thou art an honest woman. Frank, Thou hast a jewel; love her; she’ll deserve it. And when to Waltham? Frank. She is making ready; Her uncle stays for her. Sir Arth. Most provident speed. Frank, I will be thy friend, and such a friend!— Thou’lt bring her thither? Frank. Sir, I cannot; newly My father sent me word I should come to him. Sir Arth. Marry, and do; I know thou hast a wit To handle him. Frank. I have a suit t’ye. Sir Arth. What is’t? Anything, Frank; command it. Frank. That you’ll please By letters to assure my father that I am not married. Sir Arth. How! Frank. Some one or other Hath certainly informed him that I purposed To marry Winnifred; on which he threatened To disinherit me:—to prevent it, Lowly I crave your letters, which he seeing Will credit; and I hope, ere I return, On such conditions as I’ll frame, his lands Shall be assured. Sir Arth. But what is there to quit My knowledge of the marriage? Frank. Why, you were not A witness to it. Sir Arth. I conceive; and then— His land confirmed, thou wilt acquaint him throughly With all that’s past. Frank. I mean no less. Sir Arth. Provided I never was made privy to’t. Frank. Alas, sir, Am I a talker? Sir Arth. Draw thyself the letter, I’ll put my hand to’t. I commend thy policy; Dispatch it. Frank. I shall write effectually. [Exit. Sir Arth. Go thy way, cuckoo;—have I caught the young man? One trouble, then, is freed. He that will feast At other’s cost must be a bold-faced guest. Re-enter Winnifred in a riding-suit. Win, I have heard the news; all now is safe; The worst is past: thy lip, wench [Kisses her]: I must bid Farewell, for fashion’s sake; but I will visit thee Suddenly, girl. This was cleanly carried; Ha! was’t not, Win? Win. Then were my happiness, That I in heart repent I did not bring him The dower of a virginity. Sir, forgive me; I have been much to blame: had not my lewdness Given way to your immoderate waste of virtue, You had not with such eagerness pursued The error of your goodness. Sir Arth. Dear, dear Win, I hug this art of thine; it shows how cleanly Thou canst beguile, in case occasion serve To practise; it becomes thee: now we share Free scope enough, without control or fear, To interchange our pleasures; we will surfeit In our embraces, wench. Come, tell me, when Wilt thou appoint a meeting? Win. What to do? Sir Arth. Good, good, to con the lesson of our loves, Our secret game. Win. O, blush to speak it further! As you’re a noble gentleman, forget A sin so monstrous: ’tis not gently done For trial; ’troth, you need not. Sir Arth. I for trial? Not I, by this good sunshine! Win. Can you name That syllable of good, and yet not tremble To think to what a foul and black intent You use it for an oath? Let me resolve If you appear in any visitation That brings not with it pity for the wrongs Done to abusÈd Thorney, my kind husband,— If you infect mine ear with any breath That is not thoroughly perfumed with sighs For former deeds of lust,—may I be cursed Even in my prayers, when I vouchsafe To see or hear you! I will change my life From a loose whore to a repentant wife. Sir Arth. Wilt thou turn monster now? art not ashamed After so many months to be honest at last? Away, away! fie on’t! Win. My resolution Is built upon a rock. This very day Young Thorney vowed, with oaths not to be doubted, That never any change of love should cancel The bonds in which we are to either bound Of lasting truth: and shall I, then, for my part Unfile the sacred oath set on record In Heaven’s book? Sir Arthur, do not study To add to your lascivious lust the sin Of sacrilege; for if you but endeavour By any unchaste word to tempt my constancy You strive as much as in you lies to ruin A temple hallowed to the purity Of holy marriage. I have said enough; You may believe me. Sir Arth. Get you to your nunnery; There freeze in your cold cloister: this is fine! Win. Good angels guide me! Sir, you’ll give me leave To weep and pray for your conversion? Enter Old Thorney and Carter. O. Thor. You offer, Master Carter, like a gentleman; I cannot find fault with it, ’tis so fair. Car. No gentleman I, Master Thorney; spare the Mastership, call me by my name, John Carter. Master is a title my father, nor his before him, were acquainted with; honest Hertfordshire yeomen; such an one am I; my word and my deed shall be proved one at all times. I mean to give you no security for the marriage money. O. Thor. How! no security? although it need not so long as you live, yet who is he has surety of his life one hour? Men, the proverb says, are mortal; else, for my part, I distrust you not, were the sum double. Car. Double, treble, more or less, I tell you, Master Thorney, I’ll give no security. Bonds and bills are but terriers to catch fools, and keep lazy knaves busy; my security shall be present payment. And we here about Edmonton hold present payment as sure as an alderman’s bond in London, Master Thorney. O. Thor. I cry you mercy, sir; I understood you not. Car. I like young Frank well, so does my Susan too; the girl has a fancy to him, which makes me ready in my purse. There be other suitors within, that make much noise to little purpose. If Frank love Sue, Sue shall have none but Frank. ’Tis a mannerly girl, Master Thorney, though but a homely man’s daughter; there have worse faces looked out of black bags, man. O. Thor. You speak your mind freely and honestly. I marvel my son comes not; I am sure he will be here some time to-day. Car. To-day or to-morrow, when he comes he shall be welcome to bread, beer, and beef, yeoman’s fare; we have no kickshaws: full dishes, whole bellyfuls. Should I diet three days at one of the slender city-suppers, you might send me to Barber-Surgeons’ hall the fourth day, to hang up for an anatomy. Enter Warbeck with Susan, Somerton with Katherine. How now, girls! every day play-day with you? Valentine’s day too, all by couples? Thus will young folks do when we are laid in our graves, Master Thorney; here’s all the care they take. And how do you find the wenches, gentlemen? have they any mind to a loose gown and a strait shoe? Win ’em and wear ’em; they shall choose for themselves by my consent. War. You speak like a kind father.—Sue, thou hear’st The liberty that’s granted thee; what say’st thou? Wilt thou be mine? Sus. Your what, sir? I dare swear Never your wife. War. Canst thou be so unkind, Considering how dearly I affect thee, Nay, dote on thy perfections? Sus. You are studied, Too scholar-like, in words I understand not. I am too coarse for such a gallant’s love As you are. War. By the honour of gentility,— Sus. Good sir, no swearing; yea and nay with us Prevail above all oaths you can invent. War. By this white hand of thine,— Sus. Take a false oath! Fie, fie! flatter the wise; fools not regard it, And one of these am I. War. Dost thou despise me? Car. Let ’em talk on, Master Thorney; I know Sue’s mind. The fly may buzz about the candle, he shall but singe his wings when all’s done; Frank, Frank is he has her heart. Som. But shall I live in hope, Kate? Kath. Better so Than be a desperate man. Som. Perhaps thou think’st it is thy portion I level at: wert thou as poor in fortunes As thou art rich in goodness, I would rather Be suitor for the dower of thy virtues Than twice thy father’s whole estate; and, prithee, Be thou resolved Kath. Master Somerton, It is an easy labour to deceive A maid that will believe men’s subtle promises; Yet I conceive of you as worthily As I presume you to deserve. Som. Which is, As thou art worthy to be so beloved. Kath. I shall find time to try you. Som. Do, Kate, do; And when I fail, may all my joys forsake me! Car. Warbeck and Sue are at it still. I laugh to myself, Master Thorney, to see how earnestly he beats the bush, while the bird is flown into another’s bosom. A very unthrift, Master Thorney; one of the country roaring-lads: we have such as well as the city, and as arrant rake-hells as they are, though not so nimble at their prizes of wit. Sue knows the rascal to an hair’s-breadth, and will fit him accordingly. O. Thor. What is the other gentleman? Car. One Somerton; the honester man of the two by five pound in every stone-weight. A civil fellow; he has a fine convenient estate of land in West Ham, by Essex: Master Ranges, that dwells by Enfield, sent him hither. He likes Kate well; I may tell you I think she likes him as well: if they agree, I’ll not hinder the match for my part. But that Warbeck is such another—I use him kindly for Master Somerton’s sake; for he came hither first as a companion of his: honest men, Master Thorney, may fall into knaves’ company now and then. War. Three hundred a-year jointure, Sue. Sus. Where lies it? By sea or by land? I think by sea. War. Do I look like a captain? Sus. Not a whit, sir. Should all that use the seas be reckoned captains, There’s not a ship should have a scullion in her To keep her clean. War. Do you scorn me, Mistress Susan? Am I a subject to be jeered at? Sus. Neither Am I a property for you to use Pray, sir, be civil. War. Wilt be angry, wasp? Car. God-a-mercy, Sue! she’ll firk him, on my life, if he fumble with her. Enter Frank. Master Francis Thorney, you are welcome indeed; your father expected your coming. How does the right worshipful knight, Sir Arthur Clarington, your master? Frank. In health this morning.—Sir, my duty. O. Thor. Now You come as I could wish. War. [Aside] Frank Thorney, ha! Sus. You must excuse me. Frank. Virtuous Mistress Susan, Kind Mistress Katharine. [Kisses them.]—Gentlemen, to both Good time o’ th’ day. Som. The like to you. War. ’Tis he. A word, friend. [Aside to Som.] On my life, this is the man Stands fair in crossing Susan’s love to me. Som. [Aside to War.] I think no less; be wise, and take no notice on’t; He that can win her best deserves her. War. [Aside to Som.] Marry A serving-man? mew! Som. [Aside to War.] Prithee, friend, no more. Car. Gentlemen all, there’s within a slight dinner ready, if you please to taste of it; Master Thorney, Master Francis, Master Somerton.—Why, girls! what huswives! will you spend all your forenoon in tittle-tattles? away! it’s well, i’faith.—Will you go in, gentlemen? O. Thor. We’ll follow presently; my son and I Have a few words of business. Car. At your pleasure. [Exeunt all but O. Thor. and Frank. O. Thor. I think you guess the reason, Frank, for which I sent for you. Frank. Yes, sir. O. Thor. I need not tell you With what a labyrinth of dangers daily The best part of my whole estate’s encumbered; Nor have I any clue to wind it out But what occasion proffers me; wherein If you should falter, I shall have the shame, And you the loss. On these two points rely Our happiness or ruin. If you marry With wealthy Carter’s daughter, there’s a portion Will free my land; all which I will instate, Upon the marriage, to you: otherwise I must be of necessity enforced To make a present sale of all; and yet, For aught I know, live in as poor distress, Or worse, than now I do. You hear the sum? I told you thus before; have you considered on’t? Frank. I have, sir; and however I could wish To enjoy the benefit of single freedom,— For that I find no disposition in me To undergo the burthen of that care That marriage brings with it,—yet, to secure And settle the continuance of your credit, I humbly yield to be directed by you In all commands. O. Thor. You have already used Such thriving protestations to the maid That she is wholly yours; and—speak the truth— You love her, do you not? Frank. ’Twere pity, sir, I should deceive her. O. Thor. Better you’d been unborn. But is your love so steady that you mean, Nay, more, desire, to make her your wife? Frank. Else, sir, It were a wrong not to be righted. O. Thor. True, It were: and you will marry her? Frank. Heaven prosper it, I do intend it. O. Thor. O, thou art a villain! A devil like a man! Wherein have I Offended all the powers so much, to be Father to such a graceless, godless son? Frank. To me, sir, this! O, my cleft heart! O. Thor. To thee, Son of my curse. Speak truth and blush, thou monster! Hast thou not married Winnifred, a maid Was fellow-servant with thee? Frank [Aside]. Some swift spirit Has blown this news abroad; I must outface it. O. Thor. D’ you study for excuse? why, all the country Is full on’t. Frank. With your licence, ’tis not charitable, I’m sure it is not fatherly, so much To be o’erswayed with credulous conceit Of mere impossibilities; but fathers Are privileged to think and talk at pleasure. O. Thor. Why, canst thou yet deny thou hast no wife? Frank. What do you take me for? an atheist? One that nor hopes the blessedness of life Hereafter, neither fears the vengeance due To such as make the marriage-bed an inn, Which travellers, day and night, After a toilsome lodging, leave at pleasure? Am I become so insensible of losing The glory of creation’s work, my soul? O, I have lived too long! O. Thor. Thou hast, dissembler. Dar’st thou persÉver yet, and pull down wrath As hot as flames of hell to strike thee quick Into the grave of horror? I believe thee not; Get from my sight! Frank. Sir, though mine innocence Needs not a stronger witness than the clearness Of an unperished conscience, yet for that I was informed how mainly you had been Possessed of this untruth,—to quit all scruple, Please you peruse this letter; ’tis to you. O. Thor. From whom? Frank. Sir Arthur Clarington, my master. O. Thor. Well, sir. [Reads. Frank [Aside]. On every side I am distracted; Am waded deeper into mischief Than virtue can avoid; but on I must: Fate leads me; I will follow.—There you read What may confirm you. O. Thor. Yes, and wonder at it. Forgive me, Frank; credulity abused me. My tears express my joy; and I am sorry I injured innocence. Frank. Alas! I knew Your rage and grief proceeded from your love To me; so I conceived it. O. Thor. My good son, I’ll bear with many faults in thee hereafter; Bear thou with mine. Frank. The peace is soon concluded. Re-enter Carter and Susan. Car. Why, Master Thorney, d’ye mean to talk out your dinner? the company attends your coming. What must it be, Master Frank? or son Frank? I am plain Dunstable. O. Thor. Son, brother, if your daughter like to have it so. Frank. I dare be confident she is not altered From what I left her at our parting last:— Are you, fair maid? Sus. You took too sure possession Of an engagÈd heart. Frank. Which now I challenge. Car. Marry, and much good may it do thee, son. Take her to thee; get me a brace of boys at a burthen, Frank; the nursing shall not stand thee in a pennyworth of milk; reach her home and spare not: when’s the day? O. Thor. To-morrow, if you please. To use ceremony Of charge and custom were to little purpose; Their loves are married fast enough already. Car. A good motion. We’ll e’en have an household dinner, and let the fiddlers go scrape: let the bride and bridegroom dance at night together; no matter for the guests:—to-morrow, Sue, to-morrow.—Shall’s to dinner now? O. Thor. We are on all sides pleased, I hope. Sus. Pray Heaven I may deserve the blessing sent me: Now my heart is settled. Frank. So is mine. Car. Your marriage-money shall be received before your wedding-shoes can be pulled on. Blessing on you both! Frank [Aside]. No man can hide his shame from Heaven that views him; In vain he flees whose destiny pursues him. [Exeunt. decoration decoration ACT THE SECOND.SCENE I.—The Fields near Edmonton.Enter Mother Sawyer gathering sticks. Mother Sawyer. And why on me? why should the envious world Throw all their scandalous malice upon me? ’Cause I am poor, deformed, and ignorant, And like a bow buckled and bent together By some more strong in mischiefs than myself, Must I for that be made a common sink For all the filth and rubbish of men’s tongues To fall and run into? Some call me witch, And being ignorant of myself, they go About to teach me how to be one; urging That my bad tongue—by their bad usage made so— Forspeaks Themselves, their servants, and their babes at nurse. This they enforce upon me, and in part Make me to credit it; and here comes one Of my chief adversaries. Enter Old Banks. O. Banks. Out, out upon thee, witch! M. Saw. Dost call me witch? O. Banks. I do, witch, I do; and worse I would, knew I a name more hateful. What makest thou upon my ground? M. Saw. Gather a few rotten sticks to warm me. O. Banks. Down with them when I bid thee quickly; I’ll make thy bones rattle in thy skin else. M. Saw. You won’t, churl, cut-throat, miser!—there they be [Throws them down]: would they stuck cross thy throat, thy bowels, thy maw, thy midriff! O. Banks. Sayest thou me so, hag? Out of my ground! [Beats her. M. Saw. Dost strike me, slave, curmudgeon! Now, thy bones ache, thy joints cramp, and convulsions stretch and crack thy sinews! O. Banks. Cursing, thou hag! take that and that. [Beats her and exit. M. Saw. Strike, do!—and withered may that hand and arm Whose blows have lamed me drop from the rotten trunk. Abuse me! beat me! call me hag and witch! What is the name, where and by what art learned, What spells, what charms, or invocations, May the thing called Familiar be purchased? Enter Cuddy Banks and several other Clowns. Cud. A new head for the tabor, and silver tipping for the pipe; remember that: and forget not five leash of new bells. 1st Cl. Double bells;—Crooked Lane Cud. Double bells? double coxcombs! trebles, buy me trebles, all trebles; for our purpose is to be in the altitudes. 2nd Cl. All trebles? not a mean? Cud. Not one. The morris is so cast, we’ll have neither mean nor base in our company, fellow Rowland. 3rd Cl. What! nor a counter? Cud. By no means, no hunting counter; 2nd Cl. If you that be minded to follow your leader know me—an ancient honour belonging to our house—for a fore-horse i’ th’ team and fore-gallant 3rd Cl. So much for the fore-horse; but how for a good hobby-horse? Cud. For a hobby-horse? let me see an almanac. Midsummer-moon, let me see ye. “When the moon’s in the full, then’s wit in the wane.” No more. Use your best skill; your morris will suffer an eclipse. 1st Cl. An eclipse? Cud. A strange one. 2nd Cl. Strange? Cud. Yes, and most sudden. Remember the fore-gallant, and forget the hobby-horse! The whole body of your morris will be darkened.—There be of us—but ’tis no matter:—forget the hobby-horse! 1st Cl. Cuddy Banks!—have you forgot since he paced it from Enfield Chase to Edmonton?—Cuddy, honest Cuddy, cast thy stuff. Cud. Suffer may ye all! it shall be known, I can take 1st Cl. Cuddy, honest Cuddy, we confess, and are sorry for our neglect. 2nd Cl. The old horse shall have a new bridle. 3rd Cl. The caparisons new painted. 4th Cl. The tail repaired. The snaffle and the bosses new saffroned o’er. 1st Cl. Kind,— 2nd Cl. Honest,— 3rd Cl. Loving, ingenious,— 4th Cl. Affable Cuddy. Cud. To show I am not flint, but affable, as you say, very well stuffed, a kind of warm dough or puff-paste, I relent, I connive, most affable Jack. Let the hobby-horse provide a strong back, he shall not want a belly when I am in him—but [Seeing Sawyer]—’uds me, Mother Sawyer! 1st Cl. The old Witch of Edmonton!—if our mirth be not crossed— 2nd Cl. Bless us, Cuddy, and let her curse her t’other eye out.—What dost now? Cud. “Ungirt, unblest,” says the proverb; but my girdle shall serve for a riding knot; and a fig for all the witches in Christendom!—What wouldst thou? 1st Cl. The devil cannot abide to be crossed. 2nd Cl. And scorns to come at any man’s whistle. 3rd Cl. Away— 4th Cl. With the witch! All. Away with the Witch of Edmonton! [Exeunt in strange postures. M. Saw. Still vexed! still tortured! that curmudgeon Banks Is ground of all my scandal; I am shunned 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, 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 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, 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 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 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, 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 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 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 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. decoration 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 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 3rd Cl. Ay, but simply there are but seven days in the week yet. Cud. No, simply as thou understandest. Prithee look 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, 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, 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: 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 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. 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 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. decoration 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; 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 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 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, 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. 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. decoration 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: [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: 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. 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, [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 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. decoration 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 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? 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. decoration decoration 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 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, 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. Sir Arth. And you to be revenged Have sold your soul to th’ devil. M. Saw. Keep thine own from him. Just. You are too saucy and too bitter. M. Saw. Saucy? By what commission can he send my soul On the devil’s errand more than 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. M. Saw. A man; perhaps no man. Men in gay clothes, Whose backs are laden with titles and with honours, Are within far more crookÈd than I am, And, if I be a witch, more witch-like. Sir Arth. You’re a base hell-hound.— And now, sir, let me tell you, far and near She’s bruited for a woman that maintains A spirit that sucks her. M. Saw. I defy thee. Sir Arth. Go, go: I can, if need be, bring an hundred voices, E’en here in Edmonton, that shall loud proclaim Thee for a secret and pernicious witch. M. Saw. Ha, ha! Just. Do you laugh? why laugh you? M. Saw. At my name, The brave name this knight gives me—witch. Just. Is the name of witch so pleasing to thine ear? Sir Arth. Pray, sir, give way, and let her tongue gallop on. M. Saw. A witch! who is not? Hold not that universal name in scorn, then. What are your painted things in princes’ courts, Upon whose eyelids lust sits, blowing fires To burn men’s souls in sensual hot desires, Upon whose naked paps a lecher’s thought Acts sin in fouler shapes than can be wrought? Just. But those work not as you do. M. Saw. No, but far worse These by enchantments 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 butterfly. Have you not city-witches who can turn Their husbands’ wares, whole standing shops of wares, To sumptuous tables, gardens of stolen sin; In one year wasting what scarce twenty win? Are not these witches? Just. Yes, yes; but the law Casts not an eye on these. M. Saw. Why, then, on me, Or any lean old beldam? Reverence once Had wont to wait on age; now an old woman, Ill-favoured grown with years, if she be poor, Must be called bawd or witch. Such so abused Are the coarse witches; t’other are the fine, Spun for the devil’s own wearing. Sir Arth. And so is thine. M. Saw. 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 Whose honeyed hopes the credulous client draw— As bees by tinkling basins—to swarm to him From his own hive to work the wax in his; He is no witch, not he! Sir Arth. But these men-witches Are not in trading with hell’s merchandise, Like such as you are, that for a word, a look, Denial of a coal of fire, kill men, Children, and cattle. M. Saw. Tell them, sir, that do so: Am I accused for such an one? Sir Arth. Yes; ’twill be sworn. M. Saw. Dare any swear I ever tempted maiden With golden hooks flung at her chastity To come and lose her honour; and being lost, To pay not a denier Men-witches can, without the fangs of law Drawing once one drop of blood, put counterfeit pieces Away for true gold. Sir Arth. By one thing she speaks I know now she’s a witch, and dare no longer Hold conference with the fury. Just. Let’s, then, away.— Old woman, mend thy life; get home and pray. [Exeunt Sir Arthur and Justice. M. Saw. For his confusion. Enter the Dog. My dear Tom-boy, welcome! I’m torn in pieces by a pack of curs Clapt all upon me, and for want of thee: Comfort me; thou shall have the teat anon. Dog. Bow, wow! I’ll have it now. M. Saw. I am dried up With cursing and with madness, and have yet No blood to moisten these sweet lips of thine. Stand on thy hind-legs up—kiss me, my Tommy, And rub away some wrinkles on my brow By making my old ribs to shrug for joy Hast thou struck the horse lame as I bid thee? Dog. Yes; And nipped the sucking child. M. Saw. Ho, ho, my dainty, My little pearl! no lady loves her hound, Monkey, or paroquet, as I do thee. Dog. The maid has been churning butter nine hours; but it shall not come. M. Saw. Let ’em eat cheese and choke. Dog. I had rare sport Among the clowns i’ th’ morris. M. Saw. I could dance Out of my skin to hear thee. But, my curl-pate, That jade, that foul-tongued whore, Nan Ratcliffe, Who, for a little soap licked by my sow, Struck and almost had lamed it;—did not I charge thee To pinch that queen to th’ heart? Enter Ann Ratcliffe mad. Ann. 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! M. Saw. Ho, ho, ho! I thank thee, my sweet mongrel. Ann. 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? M. Saw. No, I am a lawyer. Ann. Art thou? I prithee let me scratch thy face; for thy pen has flayed-off a great many men’s 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. M. Saw. Touch her. Ann. O, my ribs are made of a paned hose, and they break! Re-enter Old Banks, with Cuddy, Ratcliffe, and Countrymen. Rat. She’s here; alas, my poor wife is here! O. Banks. Catch her fast, and have her into some close chamber, do; for she’s, as many wives are, stark mad. Cud. The witch! Mother Sawyer, the witch, the devil! Rat. O, my dear wife! help, sirs! [Ann is carried off by Ratcliffe and Countrymen. O. Banks. You see your work, Mother Bumby. M. Saw. My work? should she and all you here run mad, Is the work mine? Cud. No, on my conscience, she would not hurt a devil of two years old. Re-enter Ratcliffe and Countrymen. How now! what’s become of her? Rat. Nothing; she’s become nothing but the miserable trunk of a wretched woman. We were in her hands as reeds in a mighty tempest: spite of our strengths away she brake; and nothing in her mouth being heard but “the devil, the witch, the witch, the devil!” she beat out her own brains, and so died. Cud. It’s any man’s case, be he never so wise, to die when his brains go a wool-gathering. O. Banks. Masters, be ruled by me; let’s all to a justice.—Hag, thou hast done this, and thou shalt answer it. M. Saw. Banks, I defy thee. O. Banks. Get a warrant first to examine her, then ship her to Newgate; here’s enough, if all her other villanies were pardoned, to burn her for a witch.—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 gaol in one chain, and thou in another. M. Saw. Be hanged thou in a third, and do thy worst! Cud. How, father! you send the poor dumb thing howling to the gaol? he that makes him howl makes me roar. O. Banks. Why, foolish boy, dost thou know him? Cud. No matter if I do or not: he’s bailable, I am sure, by law;—but if the dog’s word will not be taken, mine shall. O. Banks. Thou bail for a dog! Cud. Yes, or a bitch either, being my friend. I’ll lie by the heels myself before puppison shall; his dog days are not come yet, I hope. O. Banks. What manner of dog is it? didst ever see him? Cud. See him? yes, and given him a bone to gnaw twenty times. The dog is no court-foisting hound that fills his belly full by base wagging his tail; neither is it a citizen’s water-spaniel, O. Banks. No, Goodman Son-fool, but the dog of hell-gate. Cud. I say, Goodman Father-fool, it’s a lie. All. He’s bewitched. Cud. A gross lie, as big as myself. 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. Bow, wow, wow, wow! All. O, the dog’s here, the dog’s here. O. Banks. It was the voice of a dog. Cud. The voice of a dog? if that voice were a dog’s, what voice had my mother? so am I a dog: bow, wow, wow! It was I that barked so, father, to make coxcombs of these clowns. O. Banks. However, we’ll be coxcombed no longer: away, therefore, to the justice for a warrant; and then, Gammer Gurton, have at your needle of witchcraft! M. Saw. And prick thine own eyes out. Go, peevish fools! [Exeunt Old Banks, Ratcliffe, and Countrymen. Cud. Ningle, you had liked to have spoiled all with your bow-ings. I was glad to have put ’em off with one of my dog-tricks on a sudden; I am bewitched, little Cost me-nought, to love thee—a pox,—that morris makes me spit in thy mouth.—I dare not stay; farewell, ningle; you whoreson dog’s nose!—Farewell, witch! [Exit. Dog. Bow, wow, wow, wow. M. Saw. Mind him not, he is not worth thy worrying; Run at a fairer game: that foul-mouthed knight, And pluck out’s throat. Dog. No, there’s a dog already biting,—’s conscience. M. Saw. That’s a sure bloodhound. Come, let’s home and play; Our black work ended, we’ll make holiday. [Exeunt. decoration SCENE II. A Bedroom in Carter’s House. A bed thrust forth, with Frank in a slumber.Enter Katherine. Kath. Brother, brother! so sound asleep? that’s well. Frank. [Waking.] No, not I, sister; he that’s wounded here As I am—all my other hurts are bitings Of a poor flea;—but he that here once bleeds Is maimed incurably. Kath. My good sweet brother,— For now my sister must grow up in you,— Though her loss strikes you through, and that I feel The blow as deep, I pray thee be not cruel To kill me too, by seeing you cast away In your own helpless sorrow. Good love, sit up; And if you can give physic to yourself, I shall be well. Frank. I’ll do my best. Kath. I thank you; What do you look about for? Frank. Nothing, nothing; But I was thinking, sister,— Kath. Dear heart, what? Frank. Who but a fool would thus be bound to a bed, Having this room to walk in? Kath. Why do you talk so? Would you were fast asleep! Frank. No, no; I’m not idle. But here’s my meaning; being robbed as I am, Why should my soul, which married was to hers, Live in divorce, and not fly after her? Why should I not walk hand in hand with Death, To find my love out? Kath. That were well indeed, Your time being come; when Death is sent to call you, No doubt you shall meet her. Frank. Why should not I Go without calling? Kath. Yes, brother, so you might, Were there no place to go when you’re gone But only this. Frank. ’Troth, sister, thou say’st true; For when a man has been an hundred years Hard travelling o’er the tottering bridge of age, He’s not the thousand part upon his way: All life is but a wandering to find home; When we’re gone, we’re there. Happy were man, Could here his voyage end; he should not, then, Answer how well or ill he steered his soul By Heaven’s or by Hell’s compass; how he put in— Losing blessed goodness’ shore—at such a sin; Nor how life’s dear provision he has spent, Nor how far he in’s navigation went Beyond commission: this were a fine reign, To do ill and not hear of it again; Yet then were man more wretched than a beast; For, sister, our dead pay is sure the best. Kath. ’Tis so, the best or worst; and I wish Heaven To pay—and so I know it will—that traitor, That devil Somerton—who stood in mine eye Once as an angel—home to his deservings: What villain but himself, once loving me, To be revenged on my poor sister! Frank. Slaves! A pair of merciless slaves! speak no more of them. Kath. I think this talking hurts you. Frank. Does me no good, I’m sure; I pay for’t everywhere. Kath. I have done, then. Eat, if you cannot sleep; you have these two days Not tasted any food.—Jane, is it ready? Frank. What’s ready? what’s ready? Kath. I have made ready a roasted chicken for you: Enter Maid with chicken. Sweet, wilt thou eat? Frank. A pretty stomach on a sudden; yes.— There’s one in the house can play upon a lute; Good girl, let’s hear him too. Kath. You shall, dear brother. [Exit Maid. Would I were a musician, you should hear How I would feast your ear! [Lute plays within]—stay mend your pillow, And raise you higher. Frank. I am up too high, Am I not, sister now? Kath. No, no; ’tis well. Fall-to, fall-to.—A knife! here’s never a knife. Brother, I’ll look out yours. [Takes up his vest. Enter the Dog, shrugging as it were for joy, and dances. Frank. Sister, O, sister, I’m ill upon a sudden, and can eat nothing. Kath. In very deed you shall: the want of food Makes you so faint, Ha! [Sees the bloody knife]—here’s none in your pocket; I’ll go fetch a knife. [Exit hastily. Frank. Will you?—’tis well, all’s well. Frank searches first one pocket, then the other, finds the knife, and then lies down.—The Dog runs off.—The spirit of Susan comes to the bed’s side; Frank stares at it, and then turns to the other side, but the spirit is there too. Meanwhile enter Winnifred as a page, and stands sadly at the bed’s foot.—Frank affrighted sits up. The spirit vanishes. Frank. What art thou? Win. A lost creature. Frank. So am I too.—Win? Ah, my she-page! Win. For your sake I put on A shape that’s false; yet do I wear a heart True to you as your own. Frank. Would mine and thine Were fellows in one house!—Kneel by me here. On this side now! how dar’st thou come to mock me On both sides of my bed? Win. When? Frank. But just now: Outface me, stare upon me with strange postures, Turn my soul wild by a face in which were drawn A thousand ghosts leapt newly from their graves To pluck me into a winding-sheet! Win. Believe it, I came no nearer to you than yon place At your bed’s feet; and of the house had leave, Calling myself your horse-boy, in to come, And visit my sick master. Frank. Then ’twas my fancy; Some windmill in my brains for want of sleep. Win. Would I might never sleep, so you could rest! But you have plucked a thunder on your head, Whose noise cannot cease suddenly: why should you Dance at the wedding of a second wife, When scarce the music which you heard at mine And they who thus can give both hands away In th’ end shall want their best limbs. Frank. Winnifred,— The chamber-door’s fast? Win. Yes. Frank. Sit thee, then, down; And when thou’st heard me speak, melt into tears: Yet I, to save those eyes of thine from weeping, Being to write a story of us two. Instead of ink dipped my sad pen in blood. When of thee I took leave, I went abroad Only for pillage, as a freebooter, What gold soe’er I got to make it thine. To please a father I have Heaven displeased; Striving to cast two wedding-rings in one, Through my bad workmanship I now have none; I have lost her and thee. Win. I know she’s dead; But you have me still. Frank. Nay, her this hand Murdered; and so I lose thee too. Win. O me! Frank. Be quiet; for thou my evidence art, Jury, and judge: sit quiet, and I’ll tell all. While they are conversing in a low tone, enter at one door Carter and Katherine, at the other the Dog, pawing softly at Frank. Kath. I have run madding up and down to find you, Being laden with the heaviest news that ever Poor daughter carried. Car. Why? is the boy dead? Kath. Dead, sir! O, father, we are cozened: you are told The murderer sings in prison, and he laughs here. [Takes up his vest, and shows the knife to her father, who secures it. A bloody knife in’s pocket! Car. Bless me, patience! Frank. [Seeing them.] The knife, the knife, the knife! Kath. What knife? [Exit the Dog. Frank. To cut my chicken up, my chicken; Be you my carver, father. Car. That I will. Kath. How the devil steels our brows after doing ill! Frank. My stomach and my sight are taken from me; All is not well within me. Car. I believe thee, boy; I that have seen so many moons clap their horns on other men’s foreheads to strike them sick, yet mine to scape and be well; I that never cast away a fee upon urinals, but am as sound as an honest man’s conscience when he’s dying; I should cry out as thou dost, “All is not well within me,” felt I but the bag of thy imposthumes. Ah, poor villain! ah, my wounded rascal! all my grief is, I have now small hope of thee. Frank. Do the surgeons say my wounds are dangerous, then? Car. Yes, yes, and there’s no way with thee but one. Frank. Would he were here to open them! Car. I’ll go to fetch him; I’ll make an holiday to see thee as I wish. Frank. A wondrous kind old man! Win. [Aside to Frank.] Your sin’s the blacker So to abuse his goodness.—[Aloud] Master, how do you? Frank. Pretty well now, boy; I have such odd qualms Come cross my stomach.—I’ll fall-to; boy, cut me— Win. [Aside.] You have cut me, I’m sure;—A leg or wing, sir? Frank. No, no, no; a wing— But here’s a clog that hinders me. Re-enter Carter, with Servants bearing the body of Susan in a coffin. What’s that? Car. That! what? O, now I see her; ’tis a young wench, my daughter, sirrah, sick to the death; and hearing thee to be an excellent rascal for letting blood, she looks out at a casement, and cries, “Help, help! stay that man! him I must have or none.” Frank. For pity’s sake, remove her: see, she stares With one broad open eye still in my face! Car. Thou putted’st both hers out, like a villain as thou art; yet, see! she is willing to lend thee one again to find out the murderer, and that’s thyself. Frank. Old man, thou liest! Car. So shalt thou—in the gaol.— Run for officers. Kath. O, thou merciless slave! She was—though yet above ground—in her grave To me; but thou hast torn it up again— Mine eyes, too much drowned, now must feel more rain. Car. Fetch officers. [Exit Katherine and Servants with the body of Susan. Frank. For whom? Car. For thee, sirrah, sirrah! Some knives have foolish posies upon them, but thine has a villainous one; look! [Showing the bloody knife.] O, it is enamelled with the heart-blood of thy hated wife, my belovÈd daughter! What sayest thou to this evidence? is’t not sharp? does’t not strike home? Thou canst not answer honestly and without a trembling heart to this one point, this terrible bloody point. Win. I beseech you, sir, Strike him no more; you see he’s dead already. Car. O, sir, you held his horses; you are as arrant a rogue as he: up go you too. Frank. As you’re a man, throw not upon that woman Your loads of tyranny, for she is innocent. Car. How! how! a woman! Is’t grown to a fashion for women in all countries to wear the breeches? Win. I’m not as my disguise speaks me, sir, his page, But his first, only wife, his lawful wife. Car. How! how! more fire i’ th’ bed-straw! Win. The wrongs which singly fell upon your daughter On me are multiplied; she lost a life, But I an husband, and myself must lose If you call him to a bar for what he has done. Car. He has done it, then? Win. Yes, ’tis confessed to me. Frank. Dost thou betray me? Win. O, pardon me, dear heart! I’m mad to lose thee, And know not what I speak; but if thou didst, I must arraign this father for two sins, Adultery and murder. Re-enter Katherine. Kath. Sir, they are come. Car. Arraign me for what thou wilt, all Middlesex knows me better for an honest man than the middle of a market-place knows thee for an honest woman.—Rise, sirrah, and don your tacklings; rig yourself for the gallows, or I’ll carry thee thither on my back: your trull shall to the gaol go with you: there be as fine Newgate birds as she that can draw him in: pox on’s wounds! Frank. I have served thee, and my wages now are paid; Yet my worse punishment shall, I hope, be stayed. [Exeunt. decoration ACT THE FIFTH.SCENE I.—The Witch’s Cottage.Enter Mother Sawyer. Mother Sawyer. Still wronged by every slave, and not a dog Bark in his dame’s defence? I am called witch, Yet am myself bewitched from doing harm. Have I given up myself to thy black lust Thus to be scorned? Not see me in three days! I’m lost without my Tomalin; prithee come, Revenge to me is sweeter far than life; Thou art my raven, on whose coal-black wings Revenge comes flying to me. O, my best love! I am on fire, even in the midst of ice, Raking my blood up, till my shrunk knees feel Thy curled head leaning on them: come, then, my darling; If in the air thou hover’st, fall upon me In some dark cloud; and as I oft have seen Dragons and serpents in the elements, Appear thou now so to me. Art thou i’ th’ sea? Muster-up all the monsters from the deep, And be the ugliest of them: so that my bulch And break from hell, I care not! Could I run Like a swift powder-mine beneath the world, Up would I blow it all, to find out thee, Though I lay ruined in it. Not yet come! I must, then, fall to my old prayer: Sanctibicetur nomen tuum. Not yet come! the worrying of wolves, biting of mad dogs, the manges, and the— Enter the Dog which is now white. Dog. How now! whom art thou cursing? M. Saw. Thee! Ha! no, it is my black cur I am cursing For not attending on me. Dog. I am that cur. M. Saw. Thou liest: hence! come not nigh me. Dog. Baw, waw! M. Saw. Why dost thou thus appear to me in white, As if thou wert the ghost of my dear love? Dog. I am dogged, and list not to tell thee; yet,—to torment thee,—my whiteness puts thee in mind of thy winding-sheet. M. Saw. Am I near death? Dog. Yes, if the dog of hell be near thee; when the devil comes to thee as a lamb, have at thy throat! M. Saw. Off, cur! Dog. He has the back of a sheep, but the belly of an otter; devours by sea and land. “Why am I in white?” didst thou not pray to me? M. Saw. Yes, thou dissembling hell-hound! Why now in white more than at other times? Dog. Be blasted with the news! whiteness is day’s footboy, a forerunner to light, which shows thy old rivelled face: villanies are stripped naked; the witch must be beaten out of her cockpit. M. Saw. Must she? she shall not: thou’rt a lying spirit: Why to mine eyes art thou a flag of truce? I am at peace with none; ’tis the black colour, Or none, which I fight under: I do not like Thy puritan paleness; glowing furnaces Are far more hot than they which flame outright. If thou my old dog art, go and bite such As I shall set thee on. Dog. I will not. M. Saw. I’ll sell myself to twenty thousand fiends To have thee torn in pieces, then. Dog. Thou canst not; thou art so ripe to fall into hell, that no more of my kennel will so much as bark at him that hangs thee. M. Saw. I shall run mad. Dog. Do so, thy time is come to curse, and rave, and die; the glass of thy sins is full, and it must run out at gallows. M. Saw. It cannot, ugly cur; I’ll confess nothing; And not confessing, who dare come and swear I have bewitched them? I’ll not confess one mouthful. Dog. Choose, and be hanged or burned. M. Saw. Spite of the devil and thee, I’ll muzzle up my tongue from telling tales. Dog. Spite of thee and the devil, thou’lt be condemned. M. Saw. Yes! when? Dog. And ere the executioner catch thee full in’s claws, thou’lt confess all. M. Saw. Out, dog! Dog. Out, witch! thy trial is at hand: Our prey being had, the devil does laughing stand. [Runs aside. Enter Old Banks, Ratcliffe, and Countrymen. O. Banks. She’s here: attach her.— Witch you must go with us. M. Saw. Whither? to hell? O. Banks. No, no, no, old crone; your mittimus shall be made thither, but your own jailors shall receive you.—Away with her! M. Saw. My Tommy! my sweet Tom-boy! O, thou dog! Dost thou now fly to thy kennel and forsake me? Plagues and consumptions— [She is carried off. Dog. Ha, ha, ha, ha! Let not the world witches or devils condemn; They follow us, and then we follow them. Enter Cuddy Banks. Cud. I would fain meet with mine ningle once more: he has had a claw amongst ’em: my rival that loved my wench is like to be hanged like an innocent. A kind cur where he takes, but where he takes not, a dogged rascal; I know the villain loves me. [The Dog barks.] No! art thou there? [Seeing the Dog.] that’s Tom’s voice, but ’tis not he; this is a dog of another hair, this. Bark, and not speak to me? not Tom, then; there’s as much difference betwixt Tom and this as betwixt white and black. Dog. Hast thou forgot me? Cud. That’s Tom again.—Prithee, ningle, speak; is thy name Tom? Dog. Whilst I served my old Dame Sawyer ’twas; I’m gone from her now. Cud. Gone? Away with the witch, then, too! she’ll never thrive if thou leavest her; she knows no more how to kill a cow, or a horse, or a sow, without thee, than she does to kill a goose. Dog. No, she has done killing now, but must be killed for what she has done; she’s shortly to be hanged. Cud. Is she? in my conscience, if she be, ’tis thou hast brought her to the gallows, Tom. Dog. Right; I served her to that purpose; ’twas part of my wages. Cud. This was no honest servant’s part, by your leave, Tom. This remember, I pray you, between you and I; I entertained you ever as a dog, not as a devil. Dog. True; And so I used thee doggedly, not devilishly; I have deluded thee for sport to laugh at: The wench thou seek’st after thou never spak’st with, But a spirit in her form, habit, and likeness. Ha, ha! Cud. I do not, then, wonder at the change of your garments, if you can enter into shapes of women too. Dog. Any shape, to blind such silly eyes as thine; but chiefly those coarse creatures, dog, or cat, hare, ferret, frog, toad. Cud. Louse or flea? Dog. Any poor vermin. Cud. It seems you devils have poor thin souls, that you can bestow yourselves in such small bodies. But, pray you, Tom, one question at parting;—I think I shall never see you more;—where do you borrow those bodies that are none of your own?—the garment-shape you may hire at broker’s. Dog. Why would’st thou know that, fool? it avails thee not. Cud. Only for my mind’s sake, Tom, and to tell some of my friends. Dog. I’ll thus much tell thee: thou never art so distant From an evil spirit, but that thy oaths, Curses, and blasphemies pull him to thine elbow; Thou never tell’st a lie, but that a devil Is within hearing it; thy evil purposes Are ever haunted; but when they come to act,— As thy tongue slandering, bearing false witness, Thy hand stabbing, stealing, cozening, cheating,— Although thou lose, yet he will gain by thee. Cud. Yes, I am partly a witness to this; but I never could embrace her; I thank thee for that, Tom. Well, again I thank thee, Tom, for all this counsel; without a fee too! there’s few lawyers of thy mind now. Certainly, Tom, I begin to pity thee. Dog. Pity me! for what? Cud. Were it not possible for thee to become an honest dog yet?—’Tis a base life that you lead, Tom, to serve witches, to kill innocent children, to kill harmless cattle, to stroy Dog. Why, these are all my delights, my pleasures, fool. Cud. Or, Tom, if you could give your mind to ducking,—I know you can swim, fetch, and carry,—some shop-keeper in London would take great delight in you, and be a tender master over you: or if you have a mind to the game either at bull or bear, I think I could prefer you to Moll Cutpurse Dog. Ha, ha! I should kill all the game,—bulls, bears, dogs and all; not a cub to be left. Cud. You could do, Tom; but you must play fair; you should be staved-off else. Or if your stomach did better like to serve in some nobleman’s, knight’s, or gentleman’s kitchen, if you could brook the wheel and turn the spit—your labour could not be much—when they have roast meat, that’s but once or twice in the week at most: here you might lick your own toes very well. Or if you could translate yourself into a lady’s arming puppy, there you might lick sweet lips, and do many pretty offices; but to creep under an old witch’s coats, and suck like a great puppy! fie upon’t!—I have heard beastly things of you, Tom. Dog. Ha, ha! The worse thou heard’st of me the better ’tis. Shall I serve thee, fool, at the selfsame rate? Cud. No, I’ll see thee hanged, thou shalt be damned first! I know thy qualities too well, I’ll give no suck to such whelps; therefore henceforth I defy thee. Out, and avaunt! Dog. Nor will I serve for such a silly soul: I am for greatness now, corrupted greatness; There I’ll shug in, Serve some Briarean footcloth-strider, That has an hundred hands to catch at bribes, But not a finger’s nail of charity. Such, like the dragon’s tail, shall pull down hundreds To drop and sink with him: And draw this bulk small as a silver wire, Can make a breach for:—hence, silly fool! I scorn to prey on such an atom soul. Cud. Come out, come out, you cur! I will beat thee out of the bounds of Edmonton, and to-morrow we go in procession, and after thou shalt never come in again: if thou goest to London, I’ll make thee go about by Tyburn, stealing in by Thieving Lane. If thou canst rub thy shoulder against a lawyer’s gown, as thou passest by Westminster-hall, do; if not, to the stairs amongst the bandogs, take water, and the Devil go with thee! [Exit, followed by the Dog barking. decoration SCENE II.—London. The neighbourhood of Tyburn.Enter Justice, Sir Arthur, Somerton, Warbeck, Carter, and Katherine. Just. Sir Arthur, though the bench hath mildly censured your errors, yet you have indeed been the instrument that wrought all their misfortunes; I would wish you paid down your fine speedily and willingly. Sir Arth. I’ll need no urging to it. Car. If you should, ’twere a shame to you; for if I should speak my conscience, you are worthier to be hanged of the two, all things considered; and now make what you can of it: but I am glad these gentlemen are freed. War. We knew our innocence. Som. And therefore feared it not. Kath. But I am glad that I have you safe. [A noise within. Just. How now! what noise is that? Car. Young Frank is going the wrong way. Alas, poor youth! now I begin to pity him. Enter Old Thorney and Winnifred weeping. O. Thor. Here let our sorrows wait him; to press nearer The place of his sad death, some apprehensions May tempt our grief too much, at height already.— Daughter be comforted. Win. Comfort and I Are far too separated to be joined. But in eternity: I share too much Of him that’s going thither. Car. Poor woman, ’twas not thy fault; I grieve to see thee weep for him that hath my pity too. Win. My fault was lust, my punishment was shame. Yet I am happy that my soul is free Both from consent, foreknowledge, and intent Of any murder but of mine own honour, Restored again by a fair satisfaction, And since not to be wounded. O. Thor. Daughter, grieve not For what necessity forceth; Rather resolve to conquer it with patience.— Alas, she faints! Win. My griefs are strong upon me; My weakness scarce can bear them. [Within.] Away with her! hang her, witch! Enter to execution Mother Sawyer; Officers with halberds, followed by a crowd of Country-people. Car. The witch, that instrument of mischief! Did not she witch the devil into my son-in-law, when he killed my poor daughter? Do you hear, Mother Sawyer? M. Saw. What would you have? Cannot a poor old woman have your leave To die without vexation? Car. Did not you bewitch Frank to kill his wife? he could never have done’t without the devil. M. Saw. Who doubts it? but is every devil mine? Would I had one now whom I might command To tear you all in pieces? Tom would have done’t Before he left me. Car. Thou didst bewitch Ann Ratcliffe to kill herself. M. Saw. Churl, thou liest; I never did her hurt: Would you were all as near your ends as I am, That gave evidence against me for it! 1st Coun. I’ll be sworn, Master Carter, she bewitched Gammer Washbowl’s sow to cast her pigs a day before she would have farrowed: yet they were sent up to London and sold for as good Westminster dog-pigs at Bartholomew fair as ever great-bellied ale-wife longed for. M. Saw. These dogs will mad me: I was well resolved To die in my repentance. Though ’tis true I would live longer if I might, yet since I cannot, pray torment me not; my conscience Is settled as it shall be: all take heed How they believe the devil; at last he’ll cheat you. Car. Thou’dst best confess all truly. M. Saw. Yet again? Have I scarce breath enough to say my prayers, And would you force me to spend that in bawling? Bear witness, I repent all former evil; There is no damnÈd conjuror like the devil. All. Away with her, away! [She is led off. Enter Frank to execution, Officers, &c. O. Thor. Here’s the sad object which I yet must meet With hope of comfort, if a repentant end Make him more happy than misfortune would Suffer him here to be. Frank. Good sirs, turn from me: You will revive affliction almost killed With my continual sorrow. O. Thor. O, Frank, Frank! But one bare minute ere thy fault was acted! Frank. To look upon your sorrows executes me Before my execution. Win. Let me pray you, sir— Frank. Thou much-wronged woman, I must sigh for thee, As he that’s only loth to leave the world For that he leaves thee in it unprovided, Unfriended; and for me to beg a pity From any man to thee when I am gone Is more than I can hope; nor, to say truth, Have I deserved it: but there is a payment Belongs to goodness from the great exchequer Above; it will not fail thee, Winnifred; Be that thy comfort. O. Thor. Let it be thine too, Untimely-lost young man. Frank. He is not lost Who bears his peace within him: had I spun My web of life out at full length, and dreamed Away my many years in lusts, in surfeits, Murders of reputations, gallant sins Commended or approved; then, though I had Died easily, as great and rich men do, Upon my own bed, not compelled by justice, You might have mourn’d for me indeed; my miseries Had been as everlasting as remediless: But now the law hath not arraigned, condemned With greater rigour my unhappy fact Than I myself have every little sin My memory can reckon from my childhood: A court hath been kept here, where I am found Guilty; the difference is, my impartial judge Is much more gracious than my faults Are monstrous to be named; yet they are monstrous. O. Thor. Here’s comfort in this penitence. Win. It speaks My dying comfort, that was near expiring With my last breath: now this repentance makes thee As white as innocence; and my first sin with thee, Since which I knew none like it, by my sorrow Is clearly cancelled. Might our souls together Climb to the height of their eternity, And there enjoy what earth denied us, happiness! But since I must survive, and be the monument Of thy loved memory, I will preserve it With a religious care, and pay thy ashes A widow’s duty, calling that end best Which, though it stain the name, makes the soul blest. Frank. Give me thy hand, poor woman; do not weep. Farewell: thou dost forgive me? Win. ’Tis my part To use that language. Frank. O, that my example Might teach the world hereafter what a curse Hangs on their heads who rather choose to marry A goodly portion than a dower of virtues!— Are you there, gentlemen? there is not one Amongst you whom I have not wronged; [to Carter] you most: I robbed you of a daughter; but she is In Heaven; and I must suffer for it willingly. Car. Ay, ay, she’s in Heaven, and I am so glad to see thee so well prepared to follow her. I forgive thee with all my heart; if thou hadst not had ill counsel, thou wouldst not have done as thou didst; the more shame for them. Som. Spare your excuse to me, I do conceive What you would speak; I would you could as easily Make satisfaction to the law as to my wrongs. I am sorry for you. War. And so am I, And heartily forgive you. Kath. I will pray for you For her sake, who I’m sure did love you dearly. Sir Arth. Let us part friendly too; I am ashamed Of my part in thy wrongs. Frank. You are all merciful, And send me to my grave in peace. Sir Arthur, Heaven send you a new heart!—Lastly, to you, sir; And though I have deserved not to be called Your son, yet give me leave upon my knees To beg a blessing. [Kneels. O. Thor. Take it; let me wet Thy cheeks with the last tears my griefs have left me. O, Frank, Frank, Frank! Frank. Let me beseech you, gentlemen, To comfort my old father, keep him with ye; Love this distressÈd widow; and as often As you remember what a graceless man I was, remember likewise that these are Both free, both worthy of a better fate Than such a son or husband as I have been. All help me with your prayers.—On, on; ’tis just That law should purge the guilt of blood and lust. [Exit, led off by the Officers. Car. Go thy ways; I did not think to have shed one tear for thee, but thou hast made me water my plants spite of my heart.—Master Thorney, cheer up, man; whilst I can stand by you, you shall not want help to keep you from falling: we have lost our children, both on’s, the wrong way, but we cannot help it; better or worse, ’tis now as ’tis. O. Thor. I thank you, sir; you are more kind than I Have cause to hope or look for. Car. Master Somerton, is Kate yours or no? Som. We are agreed. Kath. And but my faith is passed, I should fear to be married, husbands are so cruelly unkind. Excuse me that I am thus troubled. Som. Thou shalt have no cause. Just. Take comfort, Mistress Winnifred: Sir Arthur, For his abuse to you and to your husband, Is by the bench enjoined to pay you down A thousand marks. Sir Arth. Which I will soon discharge. Win. Sir, ’tis too great a sum to be employed Upon my funeral. Car. Come, come; if luck had served, Sir Arthur, and every man had his due, somebody might have tottered ere this, without paying fines, like it as you list.—Come to me, Winnifred; shalt be welcome.—Make much of her, Kate, I charge you: I do not think but she’s a good wench, and hath had wrong as well as we. So let’s every man home to Edmonton with heavy hearts, yet as merry as we can, though not as we would. Just. Join, friends, in sorrow; make of all the best: Harms past may be lamented, not redrest. [Exeunt. EPILOGUE. EPILOGUE.Spoken by Winnifred. I am a widow still, and must not sort A second choice without a good report; Which though some widows find, and few deserve, Yet I dare not presume, but will not swerve From modest hopes. All noble tongues are free; The gentle may speak one kind word for me. Phen. FINIS
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