With duskish dens out-gnawn in gulfs below,
Receive your ghastly charge, Duke Gorlois’ ghost!
Make room! I gladly, thus reveng’d, return!
And though your pain surpass, I greet them tho!
He hates each other heaven, that haunteth hell.
[Descendit.
EPILOGUS.
See here by this the tickle trust of time:
The false affiance of each mortal force;
The wavering weight of fates: the fickle trace,