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Which, when the hawk espies, leaves her first game,
Unto the king of birds.
THE WITCH: A TRAGI-COMEDY.
HECATE, and the other Witches, at their charms.
Hec. Titty and Tiffin, Suckin
And Pidgen, Liard and Robin !
White spirits, black spirits, gray spirits, red spirits,
Hec. Boil it well.
Hop. It gallops now!
Hec. Are the flames blue enough,
Or shall I use a little seeten* more?
Stad. The nips of fairies upon maids' white hips
Are not more perfect azure.
Hec. Tend it carefully.
Send Stadlin to me with a brazen dish,
That I may fall to work upon these serpents,
Stad. Here's Stadlin, and the dish.
Hec. Here, take this unbaptized brat!
Boil it well-preserve the fat:
You know 'tis precious to transfer
Our 'nointed flesh into the air,
In moonlight nights, o'er steeple-tops,
Mountains, and pine-trees, that like pricks, or stops,
Seem to our height: high towers, and roofs of princes,
A russet mole upon some lady's cheek.
When hundred leagues in air, we feast and sing,
What young man can we wish to pleasure us,
Thou know'st it, Stadlin?
Stad. Usually that's done.
Go feed the vessel for the second hour.
Stad. Where be the magical herbs?
Hec. They're down his throat,*
His mouth crammed full; his ears and nostrils stuffed.
I thrust in eleaselinum, lately
Aconitum, frondes populeas, and soot.
You may see that, he looks so black i' th' mouth.
Dentaphillon, the blood of a flitter-mouse,
Solanum somnificum et oleum.
Stad. Then there's all, Hecate.
Stuck full of magic needles?
Stad. 'Tis done, Hecate.
Hec. And is the farmer's picture, and his wife's, Laid down to the fire yet?
Stad. They are a-roasting both, too.
Then their marrows are a-melting subtilly,
And three months' sickness sucks up life in 'em.
And mark how their sheep prosper; or what soup
*The dead child's.
I'll mar their sillabubs, and swarthy feastings
Hecate, Stadlin, HOPPO, with the other Witches, preparing for their midnight journey through the air. FIRESTONE, HECATE'S Son.
Hec. The Moon's a gallant: see how brisk she rides! Stad. Here's a rich evening, Hecate.
Hec. Ay, is't not, wenches,
To take a journey of five thousand mile?
Hop. Ours will be more to-night.
Heard you the owl yet ?
Stad. Briefly in the copse,
As we came through now.
Hec. 'Tis high time for us, then.
Stad. There was a bat hung at my lips three times As we came through the woods, and drank her fill. Old Puckle saw her.
Hec. You are fortunate still:
The very screech-owl lights upon your shoulder,
Hec. Prepare to flight, then I'll overtake you swiftly.
Stad. Hie thee, Hecate !
We shall be up betimes.
Hec. I'll reach you quickly. [The other Witches mount. Fire. They are all going a-birding to-night. They talk of fowls in the air, that fly by day; I am sure, they'll be a company of foul sluts there to-night. If we have not mor
tality offered, I'll be hanged; for they are able to putrefy it, to infect a whole region.-She spies me now.
Hec. What! Firestone, our sweet son?
Fire. A little sweeter than some of you; or a dunghill were too good for me.
Hec. How much hast here?
Fire. Nineteen, and all brave plump ones; besides six lizards, and three serpentine eggs.
Hec. Dear and sweet boy, what herbs hast thou? Fire. I have some marmartin and mandragon. Hec. Marmaritin and mandragora, thou wouldst say. Fire. Here's pannax too: I thank thee, my pan aches, I am sure, with kneeling down to cut 'em.
Hec. And selago,
Hedge-hyssop too: how near he goes my cuttings!
Fire. Every blade of 'em, or I am a moon-calf, mother.
Look well to the house to-night; I am for aloft.
Fire. Aloft, quoth you? I would you would break your neck once, that I might have all quickly. 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.
Come away, come away!
Hec. I come, I come, I come, I come,
*Probably the true reading is after 't.