The owl is abroad, the bat, and the toad,
      And so is the cat-a-mountain,
    The ant and the mole sit both in a hole,
      And the frog peeps out o’ the fountain;
    The dogs they do bay, and the timbrels play,
      The spindle is now a turning;
    The moon it is red, and the stars are fled,
      But all the sky is a burning: 
    The ditch is made, and our nails the spade,
      With pictures full, of wax and of wool;
    Their livers I stick, with needles quick;
      There lacks but the blood, to make up the flood. 
      Quickly, dame, then bring your part in,
      Spur, spur upon little Martin,
      Merrily, merrily, make him sail,
      A worm in his mouth, and a thorn in his tail,
      Fire above, and fire below,
      With a whip in your hand, to make him go.
             Ben Johnson’s Works, by Gifford, vol. vii. p. 121.

Meric Casaubon, who is always an amusing writer, and whose works, notwithstanding his appetite for the wonderful, do not merit the total oblivion into which they have fallen, is very angry with Jerome Cardan, an author not generally given to scepticism, for the hesitation he displays on the subject of these waxen images:—­

I know some who question not the power of devils or witches; yet in this particular are not satisfied how such a thing can be.  For there is no relation or sympathy in nature, (saith one, who hath written not many years ago,) between a man and his effigies, that upon the pricking of the one the other should grow sick.  It is upon another occasion that he speaks it; but his exception reacheth this example equally.  A wonder to me he should so argue, who in many things hath very well confuted the incredulity of others, though in some things too credulous himself.  If we must believe nothing but what we can reduce to natural, or, to speak more properly, (for I myself believe the devil doth very little, but by nature, though to us unknown,) manifest causes, he doth overthrow his own grounds, and leaves us but very little of magical operations to believe.  But of all men, Cardan had least reason to except against this kind of magick as ridiculous or incredible, who himself is so full of incredible stories in that kind, upon his own credit alone, that they had need to be of very easie belief that believe him, especially when they know (whereof more afterwards) what manner of man he was.  But I dare say, that from Plato’s time, who, among other appurtenances of magic, doth mention these, [Greek:  kerina mimemata] [Transcriber’s Note:  typo “mimkmata” for “mimemata” in original Greek] that is, as Ovid doth call them, Simulachra cerea, or as Horace, cereas imagines, (who also in another place more particularly describes them,) there is not any particular rite belonging to that art more fully attested by histories of all ages than this is.  Besides, who doth not know that it is the devil’s fashion