JUSTICE: Here's none now,
Sawyer, but this gentleman [Sir Arthur
Clarington himself], myself, and you. Let us to some mild questions.
Have you mild answers? Tell us honestly, … are you a witch or no?
SAWYER: I am none.
JUST: Be not so furious.
SAWY: I am none. None but
curs so bark at me. I am none. Or would
I were: if every poor old woman be trod on thus by slaves, reviled, kicked, beaten,
as I am daily, she to be
had need turn witch.
SIR ARTHUR: And you, to be
revenged, have sold your soul to the Devil.
SAWY: Keep thine own from
JUST: You are too saucy
SAWY: Saucy? By what
can he send my soul on the Devil's
errand, more than I can his? Is he a landlord of my soul, to thrust it
when he list out of doors?
JUST: Know whom you speak
SAWY: A man: perhaps no
in gay clothes, whose backs are laden
with titles and honors, are within far more crooked than I am and—if I
be a witch—more witchlike.
SIR ART: Y'are a base
Hell-hound. And now, sir, let me tell you, far and near she's
for a woman that maintains a spirit that sucks her.
SAWY: I defy thee.
SIR ART: Go, go. I can if
bring a hundred voices e'en here in
Edmonton that shall loud proclaim thee for a secret and pernicious
SAWY: Ha, ha!
JUST: Do you laugh? Why
SAWY: At my name, the
this knight gives me: witch.
JUST: Is the name of
pleasing to thine ear?
SIR ART: Pray, sir, give
and let her tongue gallop on.
SAWY: A witch? Who is
Hold not that universal name in scorn, then.
What are your painted things in princes' courts,
Upon whose eyelids
Lust sits blowing fires
To burn men's souls in sensual hot desires,
Upon whose naked paps a lecher's thought
Acts sin in fouler shapes
can be wrought?
JUST: But those work
as you do.
SAWY: No, but far
These by enchantments can whole lordships
To trunks of rich attire, turn plows and teams
To Flanders mares
and coaches, and huge trains
Of servitors to a French butterfly.
Have you not seen City-witches who can turn
Their husbands' wares, whole standing shops of wares,
sumptuous tables, gardens of stol'n sin,
In one year wasting what
scarce twenty win?
Are not these witches?
JUST: Yes, yes, but
Casts not an eye on these.
SAWY: Why then on
any lean old beldame?
Had wont to wait on age. Now an old woman,
grown with years, if she be poor,
Must be called “bawd” or “witch.” Such so abused
Are the coarse
t'other are the fine,
Spun for the Devil's own wearing.
SIR ART: And so is
SAWY: She on whose
whirlwind sits to blow
A man out of
himself, from his soft pillow
To lean his head on rocks and fighting
Is not that scold a witch? The man of law
Whose honeyed hopes
the credulous client draws
(As bees by tinkling basins) to swarm to him
From his own hive to work the wax in his—
He is no witch, not he.
SIR ART: But these
Are not in trading with Hell's merchandise,
Like such as you are, that for a
Denial of a coal of fire, kill men,
Children, and cattle.
SAWY: Tell them, sir, that
accused for such a one?
SIR ART: Yes, 'twill be
SAWY: Dare any swear I ever
With golden hooks flung at
To come and lose her honor? And being lost
To pay not a
for't? Some slaves have done it.
Men-witches can, without the fangs of
Drawing once one drop of blood, put counterfeit pieces