Soe, mistress Anne, faire neighbour myne, How rides a witche when nighte-winds blowe? Folk saye that you are none too goode To joyne the crewe in Salem woode, When one you wot in gives the signe: Righte well, methinks, the pathe you knowe. In Meetinge-time I watched you well, While godly Master Parris prayed: Your folded hands laye on your brooke; But Richard answered to a looke That fain would tempt him unto hell, Where, Mistress Anne, your place is made. You looke into my Richard’s eyes With evill glances shameless growne; I found about his wriste a hair, And guesse what fingers tyed it there: He shall not lightly be your prize— Your Master firste shall take his owne. ’T is not in nature he should be (Who loved me soe when Springe was greene) A childe, to hange upon your growne! He loved me well in Salem Towne Until this wanton witcherie His hearte and myne crept dark betweene. Last Sabbath nighte, the gossips saye, Your goodman missed you from his side. He had no strength to move, untill Agen, as if in slumber still, Beside him at the dawne you laye. Tell, nowe, what meanwhile did betide. Dame Anne, mye hate goe with you fleete As driftes the Bay fogg overhead— Or over yonder hill-topp, where There is a tree ripe fruite shall bear When, neighbour myne, your wicked feet The stones of Gallowes Hill shall tread.
Salem
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