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!