BELL:
To be hanged by the neck till you are dead.
That bleaches you? But you’ll look whiter yet,
When you lie cold and stiffening, my pretty bleater.

JIM (_shrinking back_):
You witch ... You witch! You’ve got the evil eye.
Don’t look at me like that ... Come, let me go!

BELL:
A witch? Ay, wise men always carry witch-bane
When they’ve to do with women. Witch, say you?
Eh, lad, but you’ve been walking widdershins:
You’d best turn deazil, crook your thumbs, my callant,
And gather cowgrass, if you’d break the spell,
And send the old witch skiting on her broomstick.
They said that you’d make tracks for Krindlesyke:
And they’d cop you here, for certain--dig you out
Like a badger from his earth. I left them talking.

JIM:
Where, you hell-hag?

BELL:
Ah, where? You’d like to learn?
It’s well to keep a civil tongue with witches,
If you’ve no sliver of rowan in your pocket:
Though it won’t need any witch, my jackadandy,
To clap the clicking jimmies round your wrists.