_Clod._ An yeow been a mon Ay'st talk wy ye a bit, yeow mun tack a care o your sells, the plecs haunted with Buggarts, and Witches, one of 'em took my Condle and Lanthorn out of my hont, and flew along wy it; and another Set me o top o'th tree, where I feel dawn now, Ay ha well neegh brocken my theegh. _Doubt._ The fellows mad, I neither understand his words, nor his Sence, prethee how far is it to Whalley? _Clod._ Why yeow are quite besaid th' road mon, yeow Shoulden a gon dawn th' bonk by _Thomas_ o _Georges_, and then ee'n at yate, and turn'd dawn th' Lone, and left the Steepo o'th reeght hont. _Bell._ Prithee don't tell us what we should have done, but how far is it to Whalley? _Clod._ Why marry four mail and a bit. _Doubt._ Wee'l give thee an Angel and show us the way thither. _Clod._ Marry thats Whaint. I canno see my hont, haw con Ay show yeow to Whalley to neeght. _Bell._ Canst thou show us to any house where we may have Shelter and Lodging to night? we are Gentlemen and strangers, and will pay you well for't. _Clod._ Ay byr Lady con I, th' best ludging and diet too in aw Lancashire. Yonder at th' hough where yeow seen th' leeghts there. _Doubt._ Whose house is that? _Clod._ Why what a pox, where han yeow lived? why yeow are Strongers indeed! why, 'tis Sir _Yedard Harfourts_, he Keeps oppen hawse to all Gentry, yeou'st be welcome to him by day and by neeght he's Lord of aw here abauts. _Bell._ My Mistresses Father, Luck if it be thy will, have at my _Isabella_, Canst thou guide us thither? _Clod._ Ay, Ay, there's a pawer of Company there naw, Sir _Jeffery Shaklehead_, and the Knight his Son, and Doughter. _Doubt._ Lucky above my wishes, O my dear _Theodosia_, how my heart leaps at her! prethee guide us thither, wee'l pay thee well. _Clod._ Come on, I am e'n breed aut o my sences, I was ne'er so freeghtened sin I was born, give me your hont.--_Lancashire Witches_, p. 14. D _b_. "_Ann Whittle, alias Chattox._"] Chattox, from her continually chattering. D 2 _a_ 1. "_Her lippes euer chattering and walking._"] Walking, _i.e._, working. Old Chattox might have sat to Archbishop Harsnet for her portrait. What can exceed the force and graphic truth, the searching wit and sarcasm, of the picture he sketches in 1605?