MARY
Ye do me wrong, aunt.
AUNT
Stay, this cursed quean
With vexing me will not be done or quit.
Would ye have those fine braids tousled a bit?—
Yea, she rouses the maggot in my head.
I could bring the devil himself to bed
And bind him to the pillow like a doting wight.
I be grown so awry with spite,