You go; this march is not a race.
A Voice.
It tore me, it flayed me!
These red wounds it made me!
Witches. [in chorus]
The road is broad, the road is long,
Why crowd you so on one another?
Scrapes the besom, pricks the prong,
Chokes the child, and bursts the mother.
Wizards. [semi-chorus]