Ben Johnson - The Sad Shepherd. Act 2. Scene 8. lyrics

John, Scarlet, Scathlock, George, Alken. Jo. Rare sport I swear! this hunting of the Witch Will make us. Scar. Let's advise upon 't like Huntsmen. Geo. And we can spy her once, she is our own. Scat. First, think which way she fourmeth, on what wind: Or North, or South. Geo. For, as the Shep'herd said, A Witch is a kind of Hare. Scat. And marks the weather, As the Hare does. Jo. Where shall we hope to find her? [Alken returns. Alk. I have ask'd leave to a**ist you, jolly Huntsmen, If an old Shep'herd may be heard among you; Not jear'd or laugh'd at. Jo. Father, you will see Robinhood's House-hold, know more Curtesie. Scat. Who scorns at eld, peels of his own young Hairs. Alk. Ye say right well. Know ye the Witches Dell? Scar. No more than I do know the walks of Hell. Alk. Within a gloomy dimble, she doth dwell Down in a Pit, o'er-grown with Brakes and Briars, Close by the ruines of a shaken Abbey, Torn with an Earthquake, down unto the Ground, 'Mongst Graves, and Grots, near an old Charnel-house, Where you shall find her sitting in her fourm, As fearful, and melancholique, as that She is about; With Caterpillars Kells, And knotty Cobwebs, rounded in with spells; Thence she steals forth to relief, in the Fogs, And rotten Mists, upon the Fens, and Bogs, Down to the drowned Lands of Lincolnshire; To make Ewes cast their Lambs! Swine eat their Farrow! The House-wives Tun not work! nor the Milk churn! Writhe Childrens Wrists! and s** their Breath in sleep! Get Vials of their Blood! And where the Sea Casts up his slimy Owze, search for a Weed To open Locks with, and to rivet Charms, Planted about her, in the wicked feat, Of all her mischiefs, which are manifold. Jo. I wonder such a story could be told, Of her dire deeds. Geo. I thought a Witches Banks Had inclo'd nothing, but her merry pranks Of some old Woman. Scar. Yes, her Malice more! Scat. As it would quickly appear, had we the store Of his Collects. Geo. I, this gud learned Man Can speak her right. Scar. He knows her shifts and haunts! Alk. And all her wiles, and turns. The venom'd Plants Wherewith she k**s! where the sad Mandrake grows, Whose groans are d**hful! the dead-numming Night-shade! The stupifying Hemlock! Adders Tongue! And Martagan! the shreiks of luckless owles, We hear! and croaking Night-crowns in the Air! Green-bellied Snakes! blue Fire-drakes in the Sky! And giddy Flitter-mice, with leather Wings! The scaly Beetles, with their habergeons, That make a humming murmur as they fly! There in the Stocks of trees, white Faies do dwell, And span-long Elves, that dance about a Pool! With each a little Changeling, in their Arms! The airy Spirits play with falling Stars! And mount the Sphere of Fire, to kiss the Moon! While she sits reading by the Gloe-worms light, Or rotten Wood (o'er which the Worm hath crept) The baneful Scedule of her nocent Charms, And binding Characters, through which she wounds Her puppets, the Sigilla of her Witch-craft. All this I know, and I will find her for you; And shew you her sitting in her Fourm; I'll lay My Hand upon her; make her throw her Skut Along her Back, when she doth start before us. But you must give her Law: and you shall see her Make twenty leaps, and doubles; cross the Paths, And then squat down beside us. Jo. Crafty Croan! I long to be at the sport, and to report it. Scar. We'll make this hunting of the Witch as famous, As any other blast of Venery. Scat. Hang her foul Hag, she'll be a stinking Chase! I had rather ha'th the hunting of her Heir. Geo. If we could come to see her cry, so haw, once! Alk. That I do promise, or I' am no good Hag-finder.