_1 Pr._ The ceremonies stay. _Tir._ _Chuse the darkest part o'the grove: Such as ghosts at noon-day love. Dig a trench, and dig it nigh_ _Where the bones of Laius lie; Altars, raised of turf or stone, Will the infernal powers have none. Answer me, if this be done?_ _All Pr._ _'Tis done._ _Tir._ _Is the sacrifice made fit? Draw her backward to the pit: Draw the barren heifer back; Barren let her be, and black. Cut the curled hair, that grows Full betwixt her horns and brows: And turn your faces from the sun: Answer me, if this be done?_ _All Pr._ _'Tis done._ _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._ _Man._ O, what laments are those? _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. _Musick First. Then Song._ _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._ _Chorus._ _Till they drown, &c._ _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._ _1. Laius! 2. Laius! 3. Laius!_ _1. Hear! 2. Hear! 3. Hear!_ _Tir._ _Hear and appear! By the Fates that spun thy thread!_ _Cho._ _Which are three._ _Tir._ _By the furies fierce and dread!_ _Cho._ _Which are three._ _Tir._ _By the judges of the dead!_ _Cho._ _Which are three. Three times three!_