Wife. Pardon, Sir. [She looks down.]

Gen. Pardon! can such a thing as that be hoped? 
Lift up thine eyes, lost woman, to yon hills;
It must be thence expected:  look not down
Unto that horrid dwelling, which thou hast sought
At such dear rate to purchase.  Prithee, tell me,
(For now I can believe) art thou a witch?

Wife. I am.

Gen. With that word I am thunderstruck,
And know not what to answer; yet resolve me. 
Hast thou made any contract with that fiend,
The enemy of mankind?

Wife. O I have.

Gen. What? and how far?

Wife. I have promis’d him my soul.

Gen. Ten thousand times better thy body had
Been promis’d to the stake; aye, and mine too,
To have suffer’d with thee in a hedge of flames,
Than such a compact ever had been made.  Oh—­
Resolve me, how far doth that contract stretch?

Wife. What interest in this Soul myself could claim, I freely gave him; but his part that made it I still reserve, not being mine to give.

Gen. O cunning devil:  foolish woman, know, Where he can claim but the least little part, He will usurp the whole.  Thou’rt a lost woman.

Wife. I hope, not so.

Gen. Why, hast thou any hope?

Wife. Yes, sir, I have.

Gen. Make it appear to me.

Wife. I hope I never bargain’d for that fire, Further than penitent tears have power to quench.

Gen. I would see some of them.

Wife. You behold them now
(If you look on me with charitable eyes)
Tinctur’d in blood, blood issuing from the heart. 
Sir, I am sorry; when I look towards heaven,
I beg a gracious pardon; when on you,
Methinks your native goodness should not be
Less pitiful than they; ’gainst both I have err’d;
From both I beg atonement.

Gen. May I presume ’t?

Wife. I kneel to both your mercies.

Gen. Knowest thou what A witch is?

Wife. Alas, none better;
Or after mature recollection can be
More sad to think on ’t.

Gen. Tell me, are those tears
As full of true hearted penitence,
As mine of sorrow to behold what state,
What desperate state, thou’rt fain in?

Wife. Sir, they are.

Gen. Rise; and, as I do you, so heaven pardon me;
We all offend, but from such falling off
Defend us!  Well, I do remember, wife,
When I first took thee, ’twas for good and bad: 
O change thy bad to good, that I may keep thee
(As then we past our faiths) ’till Death us sever. 
O woman, thou hast need to weep thyself
Into a fountain, such a penitent spring
As may have power to quench invisible flames;
In which my eyes shall aid:  too little, all.
                               Late Lancashire Witches, Act 4.