Cud. Bewitched me, hisce auribus. I saw a little devil fly out of her eye like a burbolt,[428] which sticks at this hour up to the feathers in my heart. Now, my request is, to send one of thy what-d’ye-call-’ems either to pluck that out, or stick another as fast in hers: do, and here’s my hand, I am thine for three lives.
M. Saw. [Aside] We shall have sport.—Thou art in love with her?
Cud. Up to the very hilts, mother.
M. Saw. And thou wouldst have me make her love thee too?
Cud. [Aside] I think she’ll prove a witch in earnest.—Yes, I could find in my heart to strike her three quarters deep in love with me too.
M. Saw. But dost thou think that I can do’t, and I alone?
Cud. Truly, Mother Witch, I do verily believe so; and, when I see it done, I shall be half persuaded so too.
M. Saw. It is enough: what art can do be sure of.
Turn to the west, and whatsoe’er thou hear’st
Or seest, stand silent, and be not afraid.
[She stamps on the ground; the Dog appears, and fawns, and leaps upon her.
Cud. Afraid, Mother Witch!—“turn my face to the west!” I said I should always have a back-friend of her; and now it’s out. An her little devil should be hungry, come sneaking behind me, like a cowardly catchpole, and clap his talons on my haunches—’Tis woundy cold, sure—I dudder and shake like an aspen-leaf every joint of me.