_Amu._ You counsel well; therefore, Belinus, haste, And, Claramont, go bear him company, With King Arcastus, to the city walls: Then bend with speed unto the darksome grove, Where Mahomet, this many a hundred year, Hath prophesied unto our ancestors. Tell to his priests that Amurack, your king, Is now selecting all his men-at-arms To set upon that proud Alphonsus' troop: (The cause you know, and can inform them well, That makes me take these bloody broils in hand?) And say that I desire their sacred god, That Mahomet which ruleth all the skies, To send me word, and that most speedily, Which of us shall obtain the victory. [_Exeunt all except_ BAJAZET _and_ AMURACK. You, Bajazet, go post away apace To Syria, Scythia, and Albania, To Babylon, with Mesopotamia, Asia, Armenia, and all other lands Which owe their homage to high Amurack: Charge all their kings with expedition To gather up the chiefest men-at-arms Which now remain in their dominions, And on the twentieth day of the same month To come and wait on Amurack their king, At his chief city Constantinople. Tell them, moreover, that, whoso doth fail, Naught else but death from prison shall him bail. [_Exit_ BAJAZET. _Music within._ What heavenly music soundeth in my ear? Peace, Amurack, and hearken to the same. [_Hearkening to the music_ AMURACK _falls asleep._ _Enter_ MEDEA, FAUSTA _and_ IPHIGENA. _Medea._ Now have our charms fulfill'd our minds full well; High Amurack is lullèd fast asleep, And doubt I not but, ere he wakes again, You shall perceive Medea did not gibe Whenas she put this practice in your mind. Sit, worthy Fausta, at thy spouse his feet. Iphigena, sit thou on the other side: [FAUSTA _and_ IPHIGENA _sit down at_ AMURACK'S _feet._ Whate'er you see, be not aghast thereat, But bear in mind what Amurack doth chat. [_Does ceremonies belonging to conjuring._ Thou, which wert wont, in Agamemnon's days, To utter forth Apollo's oracles At sacred Delphos, Calchas I do mean, I charge thee come; all lingering set aside, Unless the penance you thereof abide: I cónjure thee by Pluto's loathsome lake, By all the hags which harbour in the same, By stinking Styx, and filthy Phlegethon, To come with speed, and truly to fulfil That which Medea to thee straight shall will! [CALCHAS _rises up,_[44] _in a white surplice and a cardinal's mitre._ _Calc._ Thou wretched witch, when wilt thou make an end Of troubling us with these thy cursèd charms? What mean'st thou thus to call me from my grave? Shall ne'er my ghost obtain his quiet rest?