Xxviii

Then to her yron wagon she betakes, And with her beares the fowle welfavourd witch: Through mirkesome aire her readie way she makes. Her twyfold Teme, of which two blacke as pitch, And two were browne, yet each to each unlich, Did softly swim away, ne ever stampe, Unlesse she chaunst their stubborne mouths to twitch; Then foming tarre, their bridles they would champe, And trampling the fine element would fiercely rampe.