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.
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
Show but his swarth cheek to me, let earth cleave
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. [They seize her.
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!
&
nbsp; 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, —
He’s then within thee: thou play’st, he bets upon thy part;
Although thou lose, yet he will gain by thee.
Cud. Ay? then he comes in the shape of a rook?
Dog. The old cadaver of some self-strangled wretch
We sometimes borrow, and appear human;
The carcass of some disease-slain strumpet
We varnish fresh, and wear as her first beauty.
Did’st never hear? if not, it has been done;
An hot luxurious lecher in his twines,
When he has thought to clip his dalliance,
There has provided been for his embrace
A fine hot flaming devil in her place.
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 corn and fruit, etc.: ‘twere better yet to be a butcher and kill for yourself.
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, and get a noble countenance;
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: I’ll stretch myself,
And draw this bulk small as a silver wire,
Enter at the least pore tobacco-fume
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.
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. —
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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.
Complete Dramatic Works of Thomas Dekker Page 178