Page:The poems of Edmund Clarence Stedman, 1908.djvu/155

WITCHCRAFT Your folded hands laye on your booke;

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 shamelesse 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 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.

125