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[455]
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!
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[456] 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[457].
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,[458] and get a noble countenance;[459]
Serve some Briarean footcloth-strider,[460]
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:[461] 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.—
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!
Would I had sunk in mine own wants, or died
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
How truly you are reconciled, and quickens
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.[462]
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.