But with a potion, I to her have given,
My arts hath made her to forget her selfe. 395
He remooves a turfe, and shewes a light in a glasse.[1076]
See heere the thing which doth prolong my life;
With this inchantment I do any thing.
And till this fade, my skill shall still endure,
And never none shall breake this little glasse,
But she that's neither wife, widow, nor maide. 400
Then cheere thy selfe; this is thy destinie,
Never to die, but by a dead mans hand.