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 you another.
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, 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.
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 codl
ings already? The first living thing I meet, you say, shall bring me to her?
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 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.
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: b
ut 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?
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.
Complete Dramatic Works of Thomas Dekker Page 174