ve,
Of childrens fat, stoln from the grave:
The juice of smallage, and night-shade,
Of poplar leaves, and aconite, made
With these.
The aromatic reed I boyl,
With water-parsnip and cinquefoil;
With store of soot, and add to that
The reeking blood of many a bat.
_Lancashire Witches_, pp. 10, 41.

One of the peculiarities of Shadwell's play is the introduction of the
Lancashire dialect, which he makes his clown Clod speak. The subjoined
extract may perhaps amuse my readers. Collier would have enjoyed it:

_Clod._ An yeow been a mon Ay'st talk wy ye a bit, yeow mun
tack a care o your sells, the plecs haunted with Buggarts,
and Witches, one of 'em took my Condle and Lanthorn out of
my hont, and flew along wy it; and another Set me o top o'th
tree, where I feel dawn now, Ay ha well neegh brocken my
theegh.

_Doubt._ The fellows mad, I neither understand his words,
nor his Sence, prethee how far is it to Whalley?

_Clod._ Why yeow are quite besaid th' road mon, yeow
Shoulden a gon dawn th' bonk by _Thomas_ o _Georges_, and
then ee'n at yate, and turn'd dawn th' Lone, and left the
Steepo o'th reeght hont.

_Bell._ Prithee don't tell us what we should have done, but
how far is it to Whalley?

_Clod._ Why marry four mail and a bit.

_Doubt._ Wee'l give thee an Angel and show us the way
thither.

_Clod._ Marry thats Whaint. I canno see my hont, haw con Ay
show yeow to Whalley to neeght.

_Bell._ Canst thou show us to any house where we may have
Shelter and Lodging to night? we are Gentlemen and
strangers, and will pay you well for't.

_Clod._ Ay byr Lady con I, th' best ludging and diet too in
aw Lancashire. Yonder at th' hough where yeow seen th'
leeghts there.

_Doubt._ Whose house is that?

_Clod._ Why what a pox, where han yeow lived? why yeow are
Strongers indeed! why, 'tis Sir _Yedard Harfourts_, he Keeps
oppen hawse to all Gentry, yeou'st be welcome to him by day
and by neeght he's Lord of aw here abauts.

_Bell._ My Mistresses Father, Luck if it be thy will, have
at my _Isabella_, Canst thou guide us thither?

_Clod._ Ay, Ay, there's a pawer of Company there naw, Sir
_Jeffery Shaklehead_, and the Knight his Son, and Doughter.

_Doubt._ Lucky above my wishes, O my dear _Theodosia_,