_Sy._ A wasting flame feeds on my amorous blood, Which we must cool, or die. What way all power, All speech, full opportunity, can make, We have made fruitless trial. Infernal Jove, You resolute angels that delight in flames, To you, all-wonder-working spirits, I fly! Since heaven helps not, deepest hell we'll try Here in this desert, the great soul of charms, Dreadful Erictho lives, whose dismal brow Contemns all roofs or civil coverture. 100 Forsaken graves and tombs, the ghosts forced out, She joys to inhabit. A loathsome yellow leanness spreads her face, A heavy hell-like paleness loads her cheeks, Unknown to a clear heaven; but if dark winds Or thick black clouds drive back the blinded stars, When her deep magic makes forced heaven quake And thunder spite of Jove,--Erictho then From naked graves stalks out, heaves proud her head With long unkemb'd hair loaden, and strives to snatch 110 The night's quick sulphur; then she bursts up tombs, From half-rot sear-cloths then she scrapes dry gums For her black rites; but when she finds a corpse But[359] newly graved, whose entrails are not turn'd To slimy filth, with greedy havock then She makes fierce spoil, and swells with wicked triumph To bury her lean knuckles in his eyes; Then doth she gnaw the pale and o'ergrown nails From his dry hand; but if she find some life Yet lurking close, she bites his gelid[360] lips, 120 And, sticking her black tongue in his dry throat, She breathes dire murmurs, which enforce him bear Her baneful secrets to the spirits of horror. To her first sound the gods yield any harm, As trembling once to hear a second charm: She is---- _Infernal music plays softly whilst_ ERICTHO _enters, and, when she speaks, ceaseth_. _Eri._ Here, Syphax, here; quake not, for know I know thy thoughts: thou wouldst entreat our power Nice Sophonisba's passion to enforce To thy affection, be all full of Jove.[361] 'Tis done, 'tis done; to us heaven, earth, sea, air, 130 And Fate itself obeys; the beasts[362] of death, And all the terrors angry gods invented (T'afflict the ignorance of patient man), Tremble at us; the roll'd-up snake uncurls[363] His twisted knots at our affrighting voice. Are we incensed? the king of flames[364] grows pale, Lest he be chok'd with black and earthy fumes, Which our charms raise. Be joy'd, make proud thy lust: I do not pray you, gods; my breath's, "You must." _Sy._ Deep knowing spirit, mother of all high 140 Mysterious science, what may Syphax yield Worthy thy art, by which my soul's thus eased? The gods first made me live, but thou live pleased.