SCENE I.--_Edmonton. The Street.

_Enter_ OLD BANKS _and several ~Countrymen~._

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

_1st Coun._ I took my wife and a serving-man in our town of Edmonton thrashing in my barn together such corn as country wenches carry to market; and examining my polecat why she did so, she swore in her conscience she was bewitched: and what witch have we about us but Mother Sawyer?

_2nd Coun._ Rid the town of her, else all our wives will do nothing else but dance about other country maypoles.

_3rd Coun._ Our cattle fall, our wives fall, our daughters fall, and maid-servants fall; and we ourselves shall not be able to stand, if this beast be suffered to graze amongst us.

_Enter_ HAMLUC _with thatch and a lighted link._

_Ham._ Burn the witch, the witch, the witch, the witch!

_Countrymen._ What hast got there?

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

_O. Banks._ Fire it, fire it! I’ll stand between thee and home for any danger. [HAM. _sets fire to the thatch._

_Enter_ MOTHER SAWYER _running._

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

_Countrymen._ Are you come, you old trot?

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

_1st Coun._ This thatch is as good as a jury to prove she is a witch.

_Countrymen._ Out, witch! beat her, kick her, set fire on her!

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

_Enter_ SIR ARTHUR CLARINGTON _and a ~Justice~._

_Countrymen._ Hang her, beat her, kill her!

_Just._ How now! forbear this violence.

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

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

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

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

_Countrymen._ Fools?

_Just._ Arrant fools.

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

_M. Saw._ And break’dst my back with beating me.

_O. Banks._ I’ll break it worse.

_M. Saw._ Wilt thou?

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

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

[446] An outbuilding or yard in the rear of a house.

_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[447] for’t? Some slaves have done it. Men-witches can, without the fangs of law Drawing once one drop of blood, put counterfeit pieces Away for true gold.

[447] Penny. Lat. _Denarius_.

_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 Of thy fine tricks. What hast thou done? let’s tickle. 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?

_Dog._ Bow, wow, wow! look here else.

_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. [_To the ~Dog~, who rubs against her._

_Ann._ O, my ribs are made of a paned hose, and they break![448] There’s a Lancashire hornpipe in my throat; hark, how it tickles it, with doodle, doodle, doodle, doodle! Welcome, sergeants! welcome, devil!--hands, hands! hold hands, and dance around, around, around. [_Dancing._

[448] Paned hose were made of stripes (panels) of different-coloured stuff stitched together, and therefore liable to break or be seam-rent. Thus counterpane.

_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.[449]

[449] Farmer Banks is very familiar with the names of old plays (or rather of the supposed witches who gave names to the plays). _Mother Bombie_ is the title of one of Lyly’s comedies, of which she is the heroine; as is _Gammer Gurton_ of the farcical drama, _Gammer Gurton’s Needle_, to which Old Banks presently refers.

_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,[450] enticing his master to go a-ducking twice or thrice a week, whilst his wife makes ducks and drakes at home: this is no Paris-garden bandog[451] neither, that keeps a bow-wow-wowing to have butchers bring their curs thither; and when all comes to all, they run away like sheep: neither is this the Black Dog of Newgate.[452]

[450] A breed of dogs, in great request for hunting ducks in the ponds at Islington and other outlying regions of London at this period.

[451] A fierce kind of mastiff kept to bait bears. Paris garden, where these brutal sports were regularly exhibited, was situated on the Bankside in Southwark, close to the Globe Theatre.--_Gifford._

[452] There is a tract, in prose and verse, attributed to Luke Hatton, entitled _The Black Dog of Newgate_; and we learn from Henslowe’s _Diary_ that there was a play by Hathway, Day, Smith, and another poet, with the same title.--_Dyce._

_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, Scurvy Sir Arthur, fly at him, my Tommy, 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._