Lorel, Maudlin, Douce.
Lor. Did you hear this? she wish'd me at the Feind,
With all my Presents! Mau. A tu lucky end
She wishend thee, foul Limmer! dritty Lown!
Gud faith, it duills me that I am thy Mother!
And see, thy Sister scorns thee, for her Brother!
Thou woo thy Love, thy Mistris, with twa Hedge-hogs?
A stinkand Brock? a Polcat? out thou Houlet!
Thou should'st ha' given her a Madge-Owl! and then
Th'hadst made a present o'thy self, Owl-spiegle!
Dou. Why, Mother, I have heard ye bid to give;
And often as the Cause calls. Mau. I know well,
It is a witty part, sometimes, to give.
But what? to whame? no Monsters! not the Maidens!
He suld present them with mare pleasant things,
Things Natural, and what all Women covet
To see: the common Parent of us all!
Which Maids will twire at, 'tween their fingers, thus!
With which his Sire gat him! He's get another!
And so beget Posterity upon her!
This he should do! (false Gelden) gang thy gait,
And du thy turns betimes: or, I'is gar take
Thy new breikes fra'thee, and thy dublet tu.
The Talleur, and the Sowter sall undu'
All they ha'made; except thou manlier woo!
[Lorel goes out.
Z z z 2
Dou. Gud Mother, gif yow chide him, he'll du
wairs.
Mau. Hang him: I geif him to the Devils eirs.
But, ye my Douce, I charge ye, shew your sell,
Tu all the Shep'erds, baudly: gaing amang'em.
Be mickel i'their Eye, frequent, and fugeand.
And, gif they ask ye of Earine,
Or of these Claithes; say, that I ga''em ye,
And say no more. I ha' that wark in hand,
That web upo' the Luime, sall gar'em think
By then, they feelin their own frights and fears,
I' is pu' the World, or Nature, 'bout their Ears.
But, hear ye, Douce, bycause ye may meet me
In mony shapes to day, where-e'er you spy
This browdred Belt, with Characters, tis I.
A Gypsan Lady, and a right Beldam,
Wrought it by Moon-shine for me, and Star-light,
Upo' your Granams Grave, that very Night
We earth'd her, in the Shades; when our Dame Hecate
Made it her gaing-night, over the Kirk-yard,
With all the Bark and Parish-Tykes set at her,
While I sat whyrland of my brazen Spindle:
At every twisted thrid my rock let fly
Unto the swe'ster, who did sit me nigh,
Under the Town-turn-pike; which ran each spell
She stitched in the work, and knit it well.
See, ye take tent to this, and ken' your Mother.