Page:Poems, now first collected, Stedman, 1897.djvu/98

WITCHCRAFT 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 gowne!

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. 78