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...