Pursue us thus to ruin in its ire?
What keeps the kindle-wood from taking light?
One.
It seems, my lord, there is some little fire.
First Priest.
Away with thee, thou lurid flame and spare!
The sight of thee makes every hope expire.
Mark how the thickening smoke is curling there,
And to the western side directs its flight;
While that pale flame which quivers in the air