But, stay; I smell a man of middle-earth.
Fal. Heavens defend me from that Welsh fairy, lest he 80 transform me to a piece of cheese!
Pist. Vile worm, thou wast o’erlook’d even in thy birth.
Quick. With trial-fire touch me his finger-end:
If he be chaste, the flame will back descend,
And turn him to no pain; but if he start,
85 It is the flesh of a corrupted heart.
Pist. A trial, come.
Evans.
Come, will this wood take fire?