Into the brain, and down again Fall in a swoun, upon the groun." [Turns rapidly round as she speaks, till she falls.

Rob. Look to her, she is mad. Maud. [rising.] My son hath sent you A pot of strawberries gathered in the wood,

His hogs would else have rooted up or trod;

With a choice dish of wildings here, to scald

And mingle with your cream.

Mar. Thank you, good Maudlin, And thank your son. Go, bear them in to Much,

The acater, let him thank her. Surely, mother,

You were mistaken, or my woodmen more,
Or most myself, to send you all our store
Of venison, hunted for ourselves this day:
You will not take it, mother, I dare say,
If we'd entreat you, when you know our
guests;

Red deer is head still of the forest feasts. Maud. But I knaw ye, a right freehearted lady,

Can spare it out of superfluity;

I have departit it 'mong my poor neighbours,

To speak your largess.

Mar. I not gave it, mother;

You have done wrong then: I know how

With his two legs; if now your cook can dress him.

'Slid, I thought the swineherd would have beat me,

He looked so big! the sturdy karl, lewd Lorel!

Mar. There, Scathlock, for thy pains, [Gives him money.] thou hast deserved it. [Exit Scath. Maud. Do you give a thing and take a thing, madam?

Mar. No, Maudlin, you had imparted to your neighbours;

And much good do it them! I have done no wrong.

Maud.

"The spit stand still, no broches turn Before the fire, but let it burn

Both sides and haunches, till the whole Converted be into one coal!"

Cla. What devil's paternoster mumbles she?

Alken. Stay, you will hear more of her witchery.

Maud.

"The swilland dropsy enter in

The lazy cuke, and swell his skin;
And the old mort-mal on his shin
Now prick and itch, withouten blin."

Cla. Speak out, hag, we may hear your devil's mattins.

Maud.

"The pain we call St. Anton's fire, The gout, or what we can desire, To cramp a cuke, in every limb, Before they dine, yet seize on him." Alken. A foul ill spirit hath possessed her.

Amie. [starting.] O Karol, Karol! call him back again.

1 And the old mortmal on his shin Now prick and itch, withouten blin.] i.e., an old sore, or gangrene. So Chaucer (from whom Jonson has taken the expression):

"But great harme was it, as it thought me, That on his shynne a mor-mal had he.' Withouten blin, is without ceasing.-WHAL.

But best, the dear good angel of the spring,

The nightingale.] This exquisitely poetical description of the nightingale is a literal translation from the Greek of Sappho: angel is used in its original signification of a messenger, or harbinger:

Ηρος άγγελος ἱμεροφωνος αηδων. — WHAL,

The nightingale.2

Maud. Then why, then why, alone Should his notes please you?

Amie. I not long agone

Took a delight with wanton kids to play, And sport with little lambs a summer's day,

And view their frisks: methought it was a sight

Of joy to see my two brave rams to fight!
Now Karol only all delight doth move,
All that is Karol, Karol I approve!
This very morning but I did bestow
(It was a little 'gainst my will, I know)
A single kiss upon the seelie swain,
And now I wish that very kiss again.

Bentley has formed the scholiast's quotation into a Sapphic, more to the credit of his learning, however, than of his poetic feelings :

Ηρος αγγελλ' ίμεροφων αηδοι.

The office of announcing the spring is given by Simonides to the swallow, in a very picturesque line:

Αγγελος κλυτα εαρος ἁδυοσμου, κυανεα χελιδών,

The speeches given to Maudlin in this part of There is indeed a spirit of contradiction in them; the dialogue do not seem to belong to her. but of far too gentle a nature for the witch. believe that they should be set down to Marian's account.

Which faith I seal unto her with this kiss, And call you all to witness of my penance. [Kisses Marian.

Alken. It was believed before, but now confirmed,

That we have seen the monster.

Enter Friar Tuck, John, Much, and Scarlet.

Tuck. Hear you how

Poor Tom the cook is taken! all his joints Do crack as if his limbs were tied with points:

His whole frame slackens; and a kind of rack

Runs down along the spondils of his back; A gout or cramp now seizeth on his head, Then falls into his feet; his knees are lead; And he can stir his either hand no more Than a dead stump, to his office, as before. Alken. He is bewitched.

Cla. This is an argument

Both of her malice and her power, we see. Alken. She must by some device restrained be,

Or she'll go far in mischief.

Rob. Advise how,

Sage shepherd; we shall put it straight in practice.

Alken. Send forth your woodmen then into the walks,

Or let them prick her footing hence; a witch

Is sure a creature of melancholy,2
And will be found or sitting in her fourm,
Or else at relief, like a hare.
Cla. You speak,

hunting,

Or starting of a hag.

Enter George.

Rob. Go, sirs, about it,

Take George here with you, he can help to find her;

Rob. Come, Marian, let's withdraw into the bower.

[Exeunt all but John, Scarlet, Scathlock, and George.

John. Rare sport, I swear, this hunting

of the witch

Will make us.

Star. Let's advise upon 't like huntsmen. George. An we can spy her once, she is

our own.

Scath. First, think which way she fourmeth, on what wind;

Or north, or south.

George. For as the shepherd said, A witch is a kind of hare.

Scath. And marks the weather,

As the hare does.

John. Where shall we hope to find her?

Re-enter Alken.

Alken. I have asked leave to assist you,

jolly huntsmen,

If an old shepherd may be heard among

you;

Not jeered or laughed at.1

John. Father, you will see

Robin Hood's household know more courtesy.

Scath. Who scorns at eld, peels off his own young hairs.

Alken. Ye say right well: know ye the witch's dell?

Scar. No more than I do know the walks of hell.

Alken. Within a gloomy dimble she doth dwell,

Down in a pit, o'ergrown with brakes and briars,

Close by the ruins 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 melancholic as that
She is about; with caterpillars' kells,
And knotty cobwebs, rounded in with
spells.

Then she steals forth to relief in the fogs,

George. Ay, this gud learned man Can speak her right.

Scar. He knows her shifts and haunts. Alken. And all her wiles and turns.

The venomed plants

Wherewith she kills! where the sad mandrake grows,

Whose groans are deathful; the deadnumbing night-shade,

The stupefying hemlock, adder's tongue, And martagan: the shrieks of luckless owls

We hear, and croaking night-crows 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 glowworm's light,

Or rotten wood, o'er which the worm hath crept,

The baneful schedule of her nocent charms, And binding characters, through which she wounds

Her puppets, the sigilla of her witchcraft. 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:1 and you shall see her

Make twenty leaps and doubles; cross the paths,

And then squat down beside us.
John. 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.

Scath. Hang her, foul hag! she'll be a stinking chase.

I had rather ha' the hunting of her heir. George. If we should come to see her, cry So ho! once.

Alken. That I do promise, or I am no good hag-finder.

ACT III.

SCENE I.-The Forest.

Enter Puck-hairy.

[Exeunt.

This dame of mine here, Maud, grows high in evil,

And thinks she does all, when 'tis I, her devil,

That both delude her, and must yet protect her.

She's confident in mischief, and presumes The changing of her shape will still secure her;

But that may fail, and divers hazards meet Of other consequence, which I must look to, Nor let her be surprised on the first catch. must go dance about the forest now, And firk it like a goblin till I find her. Then will my service come worth acceptation,

When not expected of her; when the help Meets the necessity, and both do kiss, 'Tis called the timing of a duty, this.

[Exit.

SCENE II.-Another part of the same. Enter Karol and Douce in the dress of Earine.

Kar. Sure you are very like her! I conceived

You had been she, seeing you run afore

me:

For such a suit she made her 'gainst this feast,

In all resemblance, or the very same;
I saw her in it; had she lived to enjoy it,
She had been there an acceptable guest
To Marian, and the gentle Robin Hood,
Who are the crown and ghirland of the
wood.

Douce. I cannot tell, my mother gave it

me,

keeps a school, 2

Or is the father of a family;

Or governs but a country academy:

His labours must be great, as are his cares,

Enter Æglamour.

Douce. Yes;-this sullen man,

1 But you must give her law.] "When a hare is put up, you must give her ground (i.e., law) twelve score yards or more, according to the country where she sitteth."-Tuberville, p. 248.

2 The fiend hath much to do, &c.] This passage probably alludes to the singular employments imposed upon demons by the caprice or anger of the persons to whom their services were engaged for a certain period, on condition of

[Exit.

commanding, in their turn, for ever afterwards. The books on Demonology, by Bodin, Remigius, Delrio, Wierus, and other learned drivellers, abound in stories of this nature.

Puck-hairy, about whom much has been written to very little purpose, is not the fairy, or Oriental Puck, though often confounded with him; but a fiend, engendered in the moody minds and rude and gloomy fancies of the barbarous invaders of the North.