alsely reported of him. He was the son of a
godly minister, and therefore, without doubt, within the Covenant."
Were not the interests of truth too sacred to be compromised, it might
seem almost a pity to demolish that merited and delightful retribution
which Butler's lines have immortalized.

B 3 _a_ 2. "_I will burne the one of you and hang the other._"] The
following extracts from that fine old play, "The Witch of Edmonton,"
bear a strong resemblance to the scene described in the text. Mother
Sawyer, in whom the milk of human kindness is turned to gall by
destitution, imbittered by relentless outrage and insult, and who,
driven out of the pale of human fellowship, is thrown upon strange and
fearful allies, would almost appear to be the counterpart of Mother
Demdike. The weird sisters of our transcendant bard are wild and
wonderful creations, but have no close relationship to the plain old
traditional witch of our ancestors, which is nowhere represented by
our dramatic writers with faithfulness and truth except in the Witch
of Edmonton:--

_Enter_ ELIZABETH SAWYER, _gathering sticks._

_Saw._ And why on me? why should the envious world
Throw all their scandalous malice upon me?
'Cause I am poor, deform'd, and ignorant,
And like a bow buckled and bent together,
By some more strong in mischiefs than myself,
Must I for that be made a common sink,
For all the filth and rubbish of men's tongues
To fall and run into? Some call me Witch,
And being ignorant of myself, they go
About to teach me how to be one; urging,
That my bad tongue (by their bad usage made so)
Forespeaks their cattle, doth bewitch their corn,
Themselves, their servants, and their babes at nurse.
This they enforce upon me; and in part
Make me to credit it; and here comes one
Of my chief adversaries.

_Enter_ Old BANKS.

_Banks._ Out, out upon thee, witch!

_Saw._ Dost call me witch?

_Banks._ I do, witch, I do; and worse I would, knew I a name more
hateful. What makest thou upon my ground?

_Saw._ Gather a few rotten sticks to warm me.

_Banks._ Down with them when I bid thee, quickly; I'll make thy bones
rattle in thy skin else.

_Saw._ You won't, churl, cut-throat, miser!--there they be; [_Throws
them down._] would they stuck across thy throat, thy bowels, thy maw,
thy midriff.

_Banks._ Say'st thou me so, hag? Out of my ground! [_Beats her._

_Saw._ Dost strike me, slave, curmudgeon! Now thy bones aches, thy
joints cramps, and convu