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.