_Tir._ _Pour in blood, and blood like wine, To mother Earth and Proserpine: Mingle milk into the stream; Feast the ghosts that love the steam; Snatch a brand from funeral pile; Toss it in to make them boil: And turn your faces from the sun: Answer me, if all be done?_
_All Pr._ _All is done._ [_Peal of Thunder; and flashes of Lightning; then groaning below the stage._
_Tir._ The groans of ghosts, that cleave the heart with pain, And heave it up: they pant and stick half-way. [_The Stage wholly darkened._
_Man._ And now a sudden darkness covers all, True genuine night, night added to the groves; The fogs are blown full in the face of heaven.
_Tir._ Am I but half obeyed? infernal gods, Must you have musick too? then tune your voices, And let them have such sounds as hell ne'er heard, Since Orpheus bribed the shades.
_1. Hear, ye sullen powers below: Hear, ye taskers of the dead. 2. You that boiling cauldrons blow, You that scum the molten lead. 3. You that pinch with red-hot tongs; 1. You that drive the trembling hosts Of poor, poor ghosts, With your sharpened prongs; 2. You that thrust them off the brim; 3. You that plunge them when they swim: 1. Till they drown; Till they go On a row, Down, down, down: Ten thousand, thousand, thousand fathoms low._
_1. Musick for awhile Shall your cares beguile: Wondering how your pains were eased; 2. And disdaining to be pleas'd; 1. Till Alecto free the dead From their eternal bands; Till the snakes drop from her head, And whip from out her hands. 1. Come away, Do not stay, But obey, While we play, For hell's broke up, and ghosts have holiday._
_Chorus._ _Come away, &c._ [_A flash of Lightning: The Stage is made bright, and the Ghosts are seen passing betwixt the Trees._
_Tir._ _Hear and appear! By the Fates that spun thy thread!_
_Cho._ _Which are three. Three times three!_
_Tir._ _By hell's blue flame: By the Stygian Lake: And by Demogorgon's name, At which ghosts quake, Hear and appear!_ [_The Ghost of Laius rises armed in his chariot, as he was slain. And behind his Chariot, sit the three who were murdered with him._
_Ghost of Laius._ Why hast thou drawn me from my pain below, To suffer worse above? to see the day, And Thebes, more hated? Hell is heaven to Thebes. For pity send me back, where I may hide, In willing night, this ignominious head: In hell I shun the public scorn; and then They hunt me for their sport, and hoot me as I fly: Behold even now they grin at my gored side, And chatter at my wounds.