Not yet.
Jezebel.
Then go; declare it to the priests,
That they may now declare it to the people:
The King is dead and now his son is King;
King Joram is the King in Israel.
Pashur.
You are too quick. Joram is not the King.
Jehu, anointed by the Prophet’s oil,
Has killed your Joram with an arrow shot
Under his arm, and out right through his heart,
Killing him in his chariot as he drove.
And he has killed his ally, and has flung
Your Joram’s body, bloody as it is,
Down into Naboth’s vineyard, to the dogs.
Now Bidkar, captain of the charioteers,
Drives the good Jehu hither to be crowned.
Jehu is King, and you, you scarlet whore,
Abominable in the face of God,
You manless, soulless, crownless foreigner,
Shall taste the wrath of God and of God’s people.
Now for your spicery there shall be stink,
And where the delicate hair has known the comb
There shall be baldness, and where silk has lain
There shall be nakedness.
And where the red lips mocked God delicately
There shall be broken teeth biting on dust:
It shall be done to you ere this day passes.
[Exit Pashur.
Jezebel.
My King, my sons, are killed! So Jehu wins.
Thus in an hour the world slips from the feet.
What change beyond this world summons us home?
What conclave of the spirits?
Dead: all three.
Bring me my jewels from the tiring-room.
[The Maids go, then return with casket.
You women, who were with me from the first,
Jehu is coming here to murder me.
He will be here in some few minutes now.
Yet there may still be time for you to go.