The Hag.

The staff is now greas'd;
And very well pleas'd,
She cocks out her arse at the parting,
To an old ram goat
That rattles i' th' throat,
Half-choked with the stink of her farting.
In a dirty hair-lace
She leads on a brace
Of black boar-cats to attend her:
Who scratch at the moon,
And threaten at noon
Of night from heaven for to rend her.
A-hunting she goes,
A cracked horn she blows,
At which the hounds fall a-bounding;
While th' moon in her sphere
Peeps trembling for fear,
And night's afraid of the sounding.