Part 31
_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._
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
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[420] their cattle, doth bewitch their corn, 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.
[420] Another term for “bewitch” commonly in use; the word probably implied the muttering or “forspeaking” of a spell.
_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[421]--ye shall have ’em straight in Crooked Lane:--double bells all, if it be possible.
[421] A winding thoroughfare which led from Eastcheap to Fish-street-hill.
_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?[422]
[422] “An inner part between the tenor and the base.” _Blount’s Glossographia_, 1681. It was customary in the morris to adorn the dresses of the dancers, the trappings of the hobby-horse, &c., with bells of different pitch, but arranged to sound in harmony. Hence, “treble,” “mean,” &c.
_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?[423]
[423] Counter-tenor.
_Cud._ By no means, no hunting counter;[424] leave that to Enfield Chase men: all trebles, all in the altitudes. Now for the disposing of parts in the morris, little or no labour will serve.
[424] Coursing the hare.
_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[425] in a morris, my father’s stable is not unfurnished.
[425] The fore-man or fore-gallant of the morris led the other dancers, and was distinguished by a gayer dress.
_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 mine ease as well as another man. Seek your hobby-horse where you can get him.[426]
[426] Cuddy’s anger arises from the unlucky question asked by the third clown; “How shall we do for a good hobby-horse?”--as he apparently expected, from his former celebrity in that respectable character, to have been appointed by acclamation.--_Gifford._
_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 And hated like a sickness; made a scorn 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, And I’ll effect it, on condition 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[427] you another.
[427] “Ka me, ka thee!” was an old proverb.
_M. Saw._ What’s that? to spurn, beat me, and call me witch, As your kind father doth?
_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,[428] which sticks at this hour up to the feathers in my heart. Now, my request is, to send one of thy what-d’ye-call-’ems either to pluck that out, or stick another as fast in hers: do, and here’s my hand, I am thine for three lives.
[428] Bird-bolt, arrow; perhaps more correctly “But-bolt,” as emendated by Gifford.
_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 dudder and shake like an aspen-leaf every joint of me.
_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[429] already? The first living thing I meet, you say, shall bring me to her?
[429] Peas codlings; green peas.
_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, Show’t in a smile: thy liking is the glass 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[430] thy chaste breast; in the other lies 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.
[430] There is a break here in the quarto. It is suggested that the printer was unable to decipher the first word of the line in the manuscript.
_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 Known and approved in palmistry, 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 In your first sphere of discontent. Sweet, chase 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?