The witch of Edmonton a known true story / composed into a tragi-comedy by divers well-esteemed poets, William Rowley, Thomas Dekker, John Ford, &c.

Scaen. 1.

Enter Old Banks, and two or three Country-men.

O. Bank.

MY Horse this morning runs most pitiously of the Glaunders, whose nose yesternight was as clean as any Man's here now coming from the Barbers; and this I'll take my death upon 'tis long of this Jadish Witch, Mother Sawyer.

1.

I took my Wife and a Servingman in our Town of Edmonton, thrashing in my Barn together, such Corn as Country-VVenches carry to Market; and examining my Polecat why she did so, she swore in her conscience she was bewitch'd: and what Witch have we about us, but Mother Sawyer?

2.

Rid the Town of her, else all our Wives will do nothing else but dance al out other Country May-poles.

3.

Our Cattel fall, our Wives fall, our Daughters fall, and Maid-servants fall; and we our selves shall not be able to stand, if this Beast be suffered to graze amongst us.

Enter W. Hamlac, with Thatch and a Link.

Haml.

Burn the Witch, the Witch, the Witch, the Witch.

Omn.

What hast got there?

Haml.

A handful of Thatch pluck'd off a Hovel of hers: and they say, when 'tis burning, if she be a VVitch, she'll come run∣ning in.

O. Bank.

Fire it, fire it: I'll stand between thee and home for any danger.

As that burns, enter the Witch.

Sawy.

Diseases, Plagues; the curse of an old VVoman follow and fall upon you.

Omn.

Are you come, you old Trot?

O. Bank.

You hot VVhore, must we fetch you with fire in your tail?

1.

This Thatch is as good as a Jury to prove she is a Witch.

Omn.

Out Witch; beat her, kick her, set fire on her.

Sawy.

Shall I be murthered by a bed of Serpents? help, help!

Enter Sir Arthur Clarington, and a Justice.

Omn.

Hang her, beat her, kill her.

Just.

How now? Forbear this violence.

Sawy.

A crew of Villains, a knot of bloody Hang-men set to torment me I know not why.

Just.

Alas, neighbour Banks, are you a Ring-leader in mischief: Fie, to abuse an aged woman!

O. Bank.

VVoman? a She-hell-cat, a Witch: to prove her one, we no sooner set fire on the Thatch of her House, but in she came running, as if the Divel had sent her in a Barrel of Gun-powder; which trick as surely proves her a VVitch, as the Pox in a snuffling nose, is a sign a Man is a Whore-master.

Just.

Come, come; firing her Thatch? ridiculous: take heed Sirs what you do: unless your proofs come better arm'd, instead of turning her into a VVitch, you'll prove your selves starke Fools.

Omn.

Fools?

Just.

Arrant Fools.

O. Bank.

Pray, Mr. Justice what do you call 'em, hear me but in one thing: This grumbling Devil owes me I know no good will ever since I fell out with her.

Sawy.

And brakedst my back with beating me.

O. Bank.

I'll break it worse.

Sawy.

VVilt thou?

Just.

You must not threaten her: 'tis against Law. Go on.

O. Bank.

So, Sir, ever since, having a Dun-Cow tied up in my Back-side, let me go thither, or but cast mine eye at her, and if I should be hang'd, I cannot chuse, though it be ten times in an hour, but run to the Cow, and taking up her tail, kiss (saving your Worship's Reverence) my Gow behinde; That the whole Town of Edmonton has been ready to be-piss themselves with laughing me to scorn.

Just.

And this is long of her?

O. Bank.

VVho the Devil else? for is any man such an Ass, to be such a Baby, if he were not bewitch'd?

Sir Art.

Nay, if she be a VVitch, and the harms she does end in such sports, she may scape burning.

Just.

Go, go; pray vex her not: she is a Subject, and you must not be Judges of the Law to strike her as you please.

Omn.

No, no, we'll finde cudgel enough to strike her.

O. Bank.

I, no lips to kiss but my Cows—?

Exeunt.

Sawy.

Rots and foul maladies eat up thee and thine.

Just.

Here's none now, Mother Sawyer, but this Gentleman, my self and you; let us to some milde Questions, have you milde Answers? Tell us honestly, and with a free confession, (we'll do our best to wean you from it) are you a VVitch, or no?

Sawy.

I am none.

Just.

Be not so furious.

Sawy.

I am none. None but base Curs so bark at me. I am none. Or would I were: if every poor old VVoman be trod on thus by staves, revil'd, kick'd, beaten, as I am daily, she to be re∣veng'd had need turn VVitch.

Sir Art.

And you to be reveng'd have sold your Soul to th'Devil.

Sawy.

Keep thine own from him.

Just.

You are too sawcie, and too bitter.

Sawy.

Sawcie? by what commission can he send my Soul on the Divel's Errand, more then I can his? is he a Landlord of my Soul, to thrust it when he list out of door?

Just.

Know whom you speak to.

Sawy.

A Man: perhaps, no Man. Men in gay clothes, whose Backs are laden with Titles and Honours, are within far more crooked then I am; and if I be a VVitch, more VVitch-like.

Sir Art.

Y' are a base Hell-hound. And now, Sir, let me tell you, Far and neer she's bruited for a woman that maintains a Spirit that sucks her.

Sawy.

I defie thee.

Sir Arth.

Go, go, I can, if need be, bring an hundred voyces e'en here in Edmonton, that shall lowd proclaim thee for a secret and pernicious Witch.

Sawy.

Ha, ha!

Just.

Do you laugh? why laugh you?

Sawy.

At my name: the brave name this Knight gives me, Witch.

Just.

Is the Name of Witch so pleasing to thine Ear?

Sir Art.

Pray, Sir, give way, and let her Tongue gallop on.

Sawy.

A Witch? who is not? Hold not that universal Name in scorne then. What are your painted things in Princes Courts? Upon whose Eye-lids Lust sits blowing fires To burn Mens Souls in sensual hot desires: Upon whose naked Paps, a Leachers thought Acts Sin in fouler shapes then can be wrought.

Just.

But those work not as you do.

Sawy.

No, but far worse: These, by Inchantments, can whole Lordships change To Trunks of rich Attire: turn Ploughs and Teams To Flanders Mares and Coaches; and huge trains Of servitors, to a French Butter-Flie. Have you not City-witches who can turn Their husbands wares, whole standing shops of wares, To sumptuous Tables, Gardens of stoln sin? In one yeer wasting, what scarce twenty win. Are not these Witches?

Just.

Yes, yes, but the Law Casts not an eye on these.

Sawy.

VVhy then on me, Or any lean old Beldame? Reverence once Had wont to wait on age. Now an old woman Ill favour'd grown with yeers, if she be poor, Must be call'd Bawd or VVitch. Such so abus'd Are the course VVitches: t'other are the fine, Spun for the Devil's own wearing.

Sir Art.

And so is thine.

Sawy.

She on whose tongue a whirlwind sits to blow A man out of himself, from his soft pillow, To lean his head on Rocks and fighting waves, Is not that Scold a Witch? The Man of Law VVhose honeyed hopes the credulous Client draws, (As Bees by tinkling Basons) to swarm to him, From his own Hive, to work the VVax in his; He is no VVitch, not he.

Sir Art.

But these Men-VVitches Are not in trading with Hells Merchandize, Like such as you are, that for a word, a look, Denial of a Coal of fire, kill Men, Children and Cattel.

Sawy.

Tell them, Sir, that do so: Am I accus'd for such an one?

Sir Art.

Yes, 'twill be sworn.

Sawy.

Dare any swear I ever tempted Maiden VVith golden hooks flung at her chastity, To come and lose her honour? and being lost, To pay not a Denier for't? Some slaves have done it. Men-witches can without the Fangs of Law, Drawing once one drop of blood, put counterfeit pieces Away for true Gold.

Sir Art.

By one thing she speaks, I know now she's a VVitch, and dare no longer Hold conference with the Fury.

Just.

Let's then away: Old woman, mend thy life, get home and pray.

Exeunt.

Sawy.

For his confusion.

[Enter Dog.]

My dear Tom-boy welcome.

I am torn in pieces by a pack of Curs Clap'd all upon me, and for want of thee: Comfort me: thou shalt have the Teat anon.

Dog.

Bough wough: I'll have it now.

Sawy.

I am dri'd up VVith cursing and with madness; and have yet No blood to moysten these sweet lips of thine. Stand on thy hind-legs up. Kiss me, my Tommy, And rub away some wrinkles on my brow,

By making my old ribs to shrug for joy Of thy fine tricks. VVhat hast thou done? Let's tickle. Hast thou struck the horse lame as I bid thee?

Dog.

Yes, and nip'd the sucking-childe.

Sawy.

Ho, ho, my dainty, My little Pearl. No Lady loves her Hound, Monkey, or Parakeet, as I do thee.

Dog.

The Maid has been churming Butter nine hours; but it shall not come.

Sawy.

Let 'em eat Cheese and choak.

Dog.

I had rare sport Among the Clowns i'th' Morrice.

Sawy.

I could dance Out of my skin to hear thee. But my Curl-pare, That Jade, that foul-tongu'd whore, Nan Ratcliff, VVho for a little Soap lick'd by my Sow, Struck, and almost had lam'd it; Did not I charge thee, To pinch that Quean to th' heart?

Dog.

Bough, wough, wough: Look here else.

Enter Anne Ratcliff mad.

Ratc.

See, see, see; the Man i'th' Moon has built a new Wind-mill, and what running there's from all quarters of the City to learn the Art of Grinding!

Sawy.

Ho, ho, ho! I thank thee, my sweet Mungrel.

Ratc.

Hoyda! a-pox of the Devil's false Hopper! all the gol∣den Meal runs into the rich Knaves purses, and the poor have no∣thing but Bran. Hey derry down! Are not you Mother Sawyer?

Sawy.

No, I am a Lawyer.

Ratc.

Art thou? I prithee let me scratch thy Face; for thy Pen has flea'd off a great many mens skins. You'll have brave doings in the Vacation; for Knaves and Fools are at variance in every Village. I'll sue Mother Sawyer, and her own Sow shall give in evidence against her.

Sawy.

Touch her.

Ratc.

Oh my Ribs are made of a paynd Hose, and they break. There's a Lancashire Horn-pipe in my throat: hark how it tickles it, with Doodle, Doodle, Doodle, Doodle. VVelcome Serjeants: welcome Devil. Hands, hands; hold hands, and dance a-round, a-round, a-round.

Enter Old Banks, his Son the Clown, Old Ratcliff, Country-fellows.

O. Ratc.

She's here; alas, my poor wife is here.

O. Bank.

Catch her fast, and have her into some close Chamber: do, for she's as many VVives are, stark mad.

Clow.

The witch, Mother Sawyer, the witch, the devil. [Car. her off.

O. Ratc.

O my dear VVife! help, Sirs!

O. Bank.

You see your work, Mother Bumby.

Saw.

My work? should she & all you here run mad, is the work mine?

Clow.

No, on my conscience, she would not hurt a Devil of two yeers old.

Enter Old Ratcliff, and the rest.

How now? what's become of her?

O. Ratc.

Nothing: she's become nothing, but the miserable trunk of a wretched woman. We were in her hands as Reeds in a mighty Tempest: spight of our strengths, away she brake; and no∣thing in her mouth being heard, but the Devil, the VVitch, the VVitch, the Devil; she beat out her own brains, and so died.

Clow.

It's any Man's case, be he never so wise, to die when his brains go a wool-gathering.

O. Banks.

Masters, be rul'd by me; let's all to a Justice. Hag, thou hast done this, and thou shalt answer it.

Sawy.

Banks, I defie thee.

O. Bank.

Get a VVarrant first to examine her, then ship her to Newgate: here's enough, if all her other villanies were pardon'd, to burn her for a VVitch. You have a Spirit, they say, comes to you in the likeness of a Dog; we shall see your Cur at one time or other: if we do, unless it be the Devil himself, he shall go how∣ling to the Goal in one chain, and thou in another.

Sawy.

Be hang'd thou in a third, and do thy worst.

Clow.

How, Father? you send the poor dumb thing howling to th'Goal? He that makes him howl, makes me roar.

O. Bank.

VVhy, foolish Boy, dost thou know him?

Clow.

No matter, if I do or not. He's baylable I am sure by Law. But if the Dog's word will not be taken, mine shall.

O. Bank.

Thou Bayl for a Dog?

Clow.

Yes, or a Bitch either, being my Friend. I'll lie by the heels my self, before Puppison shall: his Dog-days are not come yet, I hope.

O. Bank.

VVhat manner of Dog is it? didst ever see him?

Clow.

See him? yes, and given him a bone to gnaw twenty times. The Dog is no Court foysting Hound, that fills his belly

full by base wagging his tayl; neither is it a Citizens VVater-Spaniel, enticing his Master to go a-ducking twice or thrice a week, whilst his VVife makes Ducks and Drakes at home: this is no Paris-Garden Bandog neither, that keeps a Bough, wough, woughing, to have Butchers bring their Curs thither; and when all comes to all, they run away like Sheep: neither is this the black Dog of New-gate.

O. Bank.

No, Good-man Son-fool, but the Dog of Hell-gate.

Clow.

I say, Good-man Father-fool, it's a lye.

Omn.

He's bewitch'd.

Clow.

A gross lye as big as my self. The Devil in St. Dunstan's will as soon drink with this poor Cur, as with any Temple-Bar-Laundress, that washes and wrings Lawyers.

Dog.

Bough, wough, wough, wough.

Omn.

O the Dog's here, the Dog's here.

O. Bank.

It was the voice of a Dog.

Clow.

The voice of a Dog? if that voice were a Dog's, what voice had my Mother? so am I a Dog: bough, wough, wough: it was I that bark'd so, Father, to make Cocks-combs of these Clowns.

O. Bank.

However, we'll be Cocks-comb'd no longer: away therefore to th' Justice for a Warrant; and then, Gammer Gur∣ton, have at your Needle of VVitch-craft.

Sawy.

And prick thine own eyes out. Go, peevish Fools.

Exe.

Clow.

Ningle, you had like to have spoyl'd all with your Boughings. I was glad to put 'em off with one of my Dog-tricks, on a sudden, I am bewitch'd, little Cost-me-nought, to love thee—a Pox, that Morrice makes me spit in thy mouth. I dare not stay. Fare∣wel, Ningle; you whoreson Dogs-nose. Farewel Witch.

Exit.

Dog.

Bough, wough, wough, wough.

Sawy.

Minde him not, he's not worth thy worrying: run at a fairer Game: that fowl-mouth'd Knight, scurvy Sir Arthur, flie at him, my Tommy; and pluck out's throat.

Dog.

No, there a Dog already biting's conscience.

Sawy.

That's a sure Blood-hound. Come, let's home and play. Our black work ended, we'll make holiday.

Exeunt.