Enter Sir Arthur Clarington and a Justice.
Countrymen. Hang her, beat her, kill her!
Just. How now! forbear this violence.
M. Saw. A crew of villains, a knot of bloody hangmen,
Set to torment me, I know not why.
Just. Alas, neighbour Banks, are you a ringleader in mischief? fie! to abuse an aged woman.
O. Banks. Woman? a she hell-cat, a witch! To prove her one, we no sooner set fire on the thatch of her house, but in she came running as if the devil had sent her in a barrel of gunpowder; which trick as surely proves her a witch as the pox in a snuffling nose is a sign a man is a whore-master.
Just. Come, come: firing her thatch? ridiculous!
Take heed, sirs, what you do; unless your proofs
Come better armed, instead of turning her
Into a witch, you’ll prove yourselves stark fools.
Countrymen. Fools?
Just. Arrant fools.