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!

Tir. By hell’s blue flame: 
       By the Stygian Lake: 
     And by Demogorgon’s name,
       At which ghosts quake,
     Hear and appear!
                      [The Ghost of Laius rises armed in his chariot,
                       as he was slain.  And behind his Chariot,
                       sit the three who were murdered with him.

Ghost of Laius. Why hast thou drawn me from my pain below,
To suffer worse above? to see the day,
And Thebes, more hated?  Hell is heaven to Thebes. 
For pity send me back, where I may hide,
In willing night, this ignominious head: 
In hell I shun the public scorn; and then
They hunt me for their sport, and hoot me as I fly: 
Behold even now they grin at my gored side,
And chatter at my wounds.

Tir. I pity thee:  Tell but why Thebes is for thy death accurst, And I’ll unbind the charm.

Ghost. O spare my shame!

Tir. Are these two innocent?