Hedge-hissop too! How near he goes my cuttings!
Were they all cropt by moon-light?
Fire. Every blade of ’em, or I’m a moon-calf, mother.
Hec. Hie thee home with ’em.
Look well to th’ house to-night: I’m for aloft.
Fire. Aloft, quoth you! I would you would break your neck once, that I might have all quickly (Aside).—Hark, hark, mother! They are above the steeple already, flying over your head with a noise of musicians.
Hec. They are indeed. Help me! Help me! I’m too late else.
SONG, (in the air above).
Come away, come away!
Heccat, Heccat, come away!