Just. You are too saucy and too bitter.
M. Saw. Saucy?
By what commission can he send my soul
On the devil’s errand more than I can his?
Is he a landlord of my soul, to thrust it,
When he list, out of door?
Just. Know whom you speak to.
M. Saw. A man; perhaps no man. Men in gay clothes,
Whose backs are laden with titles and with honours,
Are within far more crookèd than I am,
And, if I be a witch, more witch-like.
Sir Arth. You’re a base hell-hound.—
And now, sir, let me tell you, far and near
She’s bruited for a woman that maintains
A spirit that sucks her.
M. Saw. I defy thee.
Sir Arth. Go, go:
I can, if need be, bring an hundred voices,
E’en here in Edmonton, that shall loud proclaim
Thee for a secret and pernicious witch.
M. Saw. Ha, ha!
Just. Do you laugh? why laugh you?
M. Saw. At my name,
The brave name this knight gives me—witch.