And in rough terms they 'gan to challenge me
About this yew.


Brach. That tree?


Vit. This harmless yew;
They told me my intent was to root up
That well-grown yew, and plant i' the stead of it
A wither'd blackthorn; and for that they vow'd
To bury me alive. My husband straight
With pickaxe 'gan to dig, and your fell duchess
With shovel, like a fury, voided out
The earth and scatter'd bones: Lord, how methought
I trembled, and yet for all this terror
I could not pray.


Flam. No; the devil was in your dream.


Vit. When to my rescue there arose, methought,
A whirlwind, which let fall a massy arm
From that strong plant;
And both were struck dead by that sacred yew,
In that base shallow grave that was their due.


Flam. Excellent devil!