A step without a gibe? Pitfalls are set
About my path, and I am sorely bruised
By sticks and stones cast by the village fry
Whene'er I wander forth; your brats are taught
To maim my cats, I soon shall be without
A shed to screen me from the storms; the roof
Is pulled about my ears. The murrain take
Your beasts, the red plague hang on all!
Ellinor.
Stay! stay!
Nay do not curse good mother; you should strive
With meekness and with gentleness to turn
Their stubborn hearts.
The Witch.
Turn stones and rocks—'twould be
A task as easy. Preach not peace to me.
I hate the canting vermin, and I'll spend
My latest breath in railing. Blisters be
Upon your slanderous lips! famine and pestilence
Feed on your vitals!
