Third Rustic.
She hath been proved a witch,
A foul rank witch. 'Twas but a fortnight since
She passed our door, and out of wicked spite
Because the silly children set a cur
A snarling on her heels, to verjuice turned
A cask of stout October. 'Tis in vain
We nail the guardian horse-shoe o'er the porch;
And place witch-straws across the threshold,—still
Our cattle die, and still the noisome blight
Destroys the labourer's toil, the farmer's hope.
Alice.
I drove the cankered beldam from my gate,
And straight a loathsome toad dragged its foul length,
And shed its venom o'er the rosemary,
The thyme, and sage, drying for winter's store.
Margaret.
The hens break all the eggs, and we may churn
Until our arms, drop off—no butter comes.
Strange cats with glaring eyes; some of the brood
