_Buss._ What dismall change is here! the good old Frier Is murther'd, being made knowne to serve my love; And now his restlesse spirit would fore-warne me 15 Of some plot dangerous, and imminent. Note what he wants! He wants his upper weed, He wants his life, and body: which of these Should be the want he meanes, and may supply me With any fit fore-warning? This strange vision, 20 (Together with the dark prediction Us'd by the Prince of Darknesse that was rais'd By this embodied shadow) stirre my thoughts With reminiscion of the Spirits promise, Who told me that by any invocation 25 I should have power to raise him, though it wanted The powerfull words and decent rites of art. Never had my set braine such need of spirit T'instruct and cheere it; now then I will claime Performance of his free and gentle vow 30 T'appeare in greater light, and make more plain His rugged oracle. I long to know How my deare mistresse fares, and be inform'd What hand she now holds on the troubled bloud Of her incensed lord: me thought the Spirit 35 (When he had utter'd his perplext presage) Threw his chang'd countenance headlong into clouds; His forehead bent, as it would hide his face, He knockt his chin against his darkned breast, And struck a churlish silence through his pow'rs. 40 Terror of darknesse! O, thou King of flames! That with thy musique-footed horse dost strike The cleare light out of chrystall on dark earth, And hurlst instructive fire about the world, Wake, wake, the drowsie and enchanted night 45 That sleepes with dead eyes in this heavy riddle! Or thou great Prince of Shades, where never sunne Stickes his far-darted beames, whose eyes are made To shine in darknesse, and see ever best Where men are blindest, open now the heart 50 Of thy abashed oracle, that, for feare Of some ill it includes, would faine lie hid, And rise thou with it in thy greater light! _Thunders. Surgit Spiritus cum suis._ _Behemoth._ Thus, to observe my vow of apparition In greater light, and explicate thy fate, 55 I come; and tell thee that, if thou obey The summons that thy mistresse next will send thee, Her hand shall be thy death. _Buss._ When will she send? _Beh._ Soone as I set againe, where late I rose. _Buss._ Is the old Frier slaine? _Beh._ No, and yet lives not. 60 _Buss._ Died he a naturall death? _Beh._ He did. _Buss._ Who then Will my deare mistresse send? _Beh._ I must not tell thee. _Buss._ Who lets thee? _Beh._ Fate.