_Epi_. We have a taske in hand, to kill a Serpent Which spits her poyson in our kingdomes face. And that we speake not of (?); lives still That Witch _Victoria_, wife to _Bellizarius_? Is Death afraid to touch the Hagge? does hunger Tremble to gnaw her flesh off, dry up her blood And make her eate her selfe in Curses, ha?
_Clown_. Ha? your mouth gapes as if you would eate me. The King commanded she should be laden with Irons,--I have laid two load upon her; then to pop her into the Dungeon,--I thrust her downe as deepe as I could; then to give her no meate,--alas my cheekes cry out, I have meate little enough for my selfe. Three days and three nights has her Cupboard had no victuals in it; I saw no lesse than Fifty sixe Mice runne out of the hole she lies in, and not a crumme of bread or bit of cheese amongst them.
_Clown_. I heard her one morning cough pittifully; upon which I gave her a messe of Porredge piping-hot.
_Clown_. Nay but, Sir, I powr'd 'em downe scalding as they were on her head, because they say they are good for a cold, and I thinke that kill'd her; for to try if she were alive or no I did but even now tye a Crust to a packe-threed on a pinne, but shee leapt not at it; so that I am sure shee's worms meate by this.
_Epi_. Rewards in golden showers shall raine upon us, Be thy words true: fall downe and kisse the earth.
_Clown_. Kisse earth? Why? and so many wenches come to the Iayle?
_Epi_. Slave, downe and clap thy eare to the caves mouth And make me glad or heavy; if she speake not I shall cracke my ribs and spend my spleene in laughter; But if thou hear'st her pant I am gon.
_Clown_. No, Sir; her winde instrument is out of tune.
_Clown_. Do you heare, you low woman? hold not downe your head so for shame; creepe not thus into a corner, no honest woman loves to be fumbling thus in the darke. Hang her; she has no tongue.
_Epi_. Would twenty thousand of their sexe had none.
_Clown_. Foxe, foxe, come out of your hole.
_An Angel ascends from the cave, singing_.
_Clown_. Alas, I know not what my selfe am.
_Fly, darknesse, fly in spight of Caves; Truth can thrust her armes through Graves. No Tyrant shall confine A white soule that's divine And does more brightly shine Than Moone or Sunne; She lasts when they are done_.