M. Saw. Whither? to hell?
O. Banks. No, no, no, old crone; your mittimus shall be made thither, but your own jailors shall receive you.—Away with her!
M. Saw. My Tommy! my sweet Tom-boy! O, thou dog!
Dost thou now fly to thy kennel and forsake me?
Plagues and consumptions— [She is carried off.
Dog. Ha, ha, ha, ha!
Let not the world witches or devils condemn;
They follow us, and then we follow them.
Enter Cuddy Banks.
Cud. I would fain meet with mine ningle once more: he has had a claw amongst ’em: my rival that loved my wench is like to be hanged like an innocent. A kind cur where he takes, but where he takes not, a dogged rascal; I know the villain loves me. [The Dog barks.] No! art thou there? [Seeing the Dog.] that’s Tom’s voice, but ’tis not he; this is a dog of another hair, this. Bark, and not speak to me? not Tom, then; there’s as much difference betwixt Tom and this as betwixt white and black.
Dog. Hast thou forgot me?
Cud. That’s Tom again.—Prithee, ningle, speak; is thy name Tom?
Dog. Whilst I served my old Dame Sawyer ’twas; I’m gone from her now.
Cud. Gone? Away with the witch, then, too! she’ll never thrive if thou leavest her; she knows no more how to kill a cow, or a horse, or a sow, without thee, than she does to kill a goose.