_November 3, 1827._
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~Garrick Plays.~
No. XLIII.
[From “Brutus of Alba,” a Tragedy, by Nahum Tate, 1678.]
_Ragusa, and four more Witches, about to raise a storm._
_Rag._ ’Tis time we were preparing for the storm.
Heed me, ye daughters of the mystic art;
Look that it be no common hurricane,
But such as rend the Caspian cliffs, and from
Th’ Hyrcanian hills sweep cedars, roots and all.
Speak; goes all right?
_All._ Uh! Uh! Uh! Uh!
_1st W._ The cricket leaves our cave, and chirps no more.
_2d W._ I stuck a ram, but could not stain my steel.
_3d W._ His fat consumed in th’ fire, and never smok’d.
_4th W._ I found this morn upon our furnace wall
Mysterious words wrought by a slimy snail,
Whose night-walk fate had guided in that form.
_2d W._ Thou’rt queen of mysteries, great Ragusa.
How hast thou stemm’d the abyss of our black science,
Traced dodging nature thro’ her blind ’scape-roads,
And brought her naked and trembling to the light!
_Rag._ Now to our task--
Stand off; and, crouching, mystic postures make,
Gnawing your rivel’d knuckles till they bleed,
Whilst I fall prostrate to consult my art,
And mutter sounds too secret for your ear.
(_storm rises._)
_Rag._ The storm’s on wing, comes powdering from the Nore;
Tis past the Alps already, and whirls forward
To th’ Appenine, whose rifted snow is swept
To th’ vales beneath, while cots and folds lie buried.
Thou Myrza tak’st to-night an airy march
To th’ Pontic shore for drugs; and for more speed
On my own maple crutch thou shalt be mounted,
Which bridled turns to a steed so manageable,
That thou may’st rein him with a spider’s thread.
_4th W._ And how if I o’ertake a bark in the way?
_Rag._ Then, if aloft thou goest, to tinder scorch
The fauns; but if thou tak’st a lower cut,
Then snatch the whips off from the steersman’s hand,
And sowce him in the foam.
_4th W._ He shall be drench’d.
(_storm thickens._)
_Rag._ Aye, this is music! now methinks I hear
The shrieks of sinking sailors, tackle rent,
Rudders unhing’d, while the sea-raveners swift
Scour thro’ the dark flood for the diving corpses.
(_the owl cries._)
Ha! art thou there, my melancholy sister?
Thou think’st thy nap was short, and art surpris’d
To find night fallen already.
More turf to th’ fire, till the black mesh ferment;
Burn th’ oil of basilisk to fret the storm.
That was a merry clap: I know that cloud
Was of my Fricker’s rending, Fricker rent it;
0 ’tis an ardent Spirit: but beshrew him,
’Twas he seduced me first to hellish arts.
He found me pensive in a desart glin,
Near a lone oak forlorn and thunder-cleft,
Where discontented I abjured the Gods,
And bann’d the cruel creditor that seiz’d
My Mullees,[500] sole subsistence of my life.
He promised me full twelve years’ absolute reign
To banquet all my senses, but he lied,
For vipers’ flesh is now my only food,
My drink of springs that stream from sulph’rous mines;
Beside with midnight cramps and scalding sweats
I am almost inured for hell’s worst tortures.--
I hear the wood-nymphs cry; by that I know
My charm has took--
but day clears up,
And heavenly light wounds my infectious eyes.
_1st W._ Now, sullen Dame, dost thou approve our works?
_Rag._ ’Twas a brave wreck: O, you have well perform’d.
_2d W._ Myrza and I bestrid a cloud, and soar’d
To lash the storm, which we pursued to th’ City,
Where in my flight I snatch’d the golden globe,
That high on Saturn’s pillar blaz’d i’ th’ air.
_3d W._ I fired the turret of Minerva’s fane.
_4th W._ I staid i’ th’ cell to set the spell a work.
The lamps burnt ghastly blue, the furnace shook;
The Salamander felt the heat redoubled,
And frisk’d about, so well I plied the fire.
_Rag._ Now as I hate bright day, and love moonshine,
You shall be all my sisters in the art:
I will instruct ye in each mystery;
Make ye all Ragusas.
_All._ Ho! Ho! Ho!
_Rag._ Around me, and I’ll deal to each her dole.
There’s an elf-lock, tooth of hermaphrodite,
A brace of mandrakes digg’d in fairy ground,
A lamprey’s chain, snake’s eggs, dead sparks of thunder
Quench’d in its passage thro’ the cold mid air,
A mermaid’s fin, a cockatrice’s comb
Wrapt i’ the dried caul of a brat still-born.
Burn ’em.--
In whispers take the rest, which named aloud
Would fright the day, and raise another storm.
_All._ Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho!
_Soziman, a wicked Statesman, employs Ragusa for a charm._
_Rag._--my drudges I’ll employ
To frame with their best arts a bracelet for thee,
Which, while thou wear’st it lock’d on thy left arm,
Treason shall ne’er annoy thee, sword and poison
In vain attempt; Nature alone have power
Thy substance to dissolve, nor she herself
Till many a winter-shock hath broke thy temper.
_Soz._ Medea for her Jason less performed!
My greatening soul aspires to range like thee,
In unknown worlds, to search the reign of Night.
Admitted to thy dreadful mysteries,
I should be more than mortal.
_Rag._ Near my cell,
Mong’st circling rocks (in form a theatre)
Lies a snug vale--
_Soz._ With horror I have view’d it;
Tis blasted all and bare as th’ ocean beech,
And seems a round for elves to revel in.
_Rag._ With my attendants there each waining moon
My dreadful Court I hold, and sit in state:--
And when the dire transactions are dispatch’d,
Our zany Spirits ascend to make us mirth
With gambals, dances, masks and revelling songs,
Till our mad din strike terror through the waste,
Spreads far and wide to th’ cliffs that bank the main,
And scarce is lost in the wide ocean’s roar.
Here seated by me thou shalt view the sports,
Whilst demons kiss thy foot, and swear thee homage.
_Ragusa, with the other Witches, having finished the bracelet._
_Rag._ Proceed we then to finish our black projects.--
View here, till from your green distilling eyes
The poisonous glances center on this bracelet,
A fatal gift for our projecting son;--
Seven hours odd minutes has it steept i’ th’ gall
Of a vile Moor swine-rooted from his grave.
Now to your bloated lips apply it round,
And with th’ infectious dew of your black breaths
Compleat its baleful force.
* * * * *
[From the “Fatal Union,” a Tragedy; Author Unknown.]
_Dirge._
Noblest bodies are but gilded clay.
Put away
But the precious shining rind,
The inmost rottenness remains behind.
Kings, on earth though Gods they be,
Yet in death are vile as we.
He, a thousand Kings before,
Now is vassal unto more.
Vermin now insulting lie,
And dig for diamonds in each eye;
Whilst the sceptre-bearing hand
Cannot their inroads withstand.
Here doth one in odours wade,
By the regal unction made;
While another dares to gnaw
On that tongue, his people’s law.
Fools, ah! fools are we that so contrive,
And do strive,
In each gaudy ornament,
Who shall his corpse in the best dish present.