CHORUS.
Like guilty souls of the Dead
Driven to Judgment
By fiends reproachful;
Whose hearts unknowing
Like dew in day-time
To nothing dwindle.
Like sheep to shambles
They walk weeping,
No step without a tear
Till to the Pool they come.
PRIEST.
Now we are come to the Pool, and by its edge are ranged the Priest, the acolytes, the virgins and dancing-boys.
CHORUS.
There is one doom-lot;
Yet those that are thinking
“Will it be mine?”
They are a hundred,
And many times a hundred.
PRIEST.
Embracing, clasping hands ...
CHORUS.