Garrick Plays.
No. XLIII.
[From “Brutus of Alba,” a Tragedy, by Nahum Tate, 1678.]
Ragusa, and four more Witches, about to raise a storm.
Rag. ’Tis time we were preparing for the storm.
Heed me, ye daughters of the mystic art;
Look that it be no common hurricane,
But such as rend the Caspian cliffs, and from
Th’ Hyrcanian hills sweep cedars, roots and all.
Speak; goes all right?
All. Uh! Uh! Uh! Uh!
1st W. The cricket leaves our cave, and chirps no more.
2d W. I stuck a ram, but could not stain my steel.
3d W. His fat consumed in th’ fire, and never smok’d.
4th W. I found this morn upon our furnace wall
Mysterious words wrought by a slimy snail,
Whose night-walk fate had guided in that form.
2d W. Thou’rt queen of mysteries, great Ragusa.
How hast thou stemm’d the abyss of our black science,
Traced dodging nature thro’ her blind ’scape-roads,
And brought her naked and trembling to the light!
Rag. Now to our task—
Stand off; and, crouching, mystic postures make,
Gnawing your rivel’d knuckles till they bleed,
Whilst I fall prostrate to consult my art,
And mutter sounds too secret for your ear.
(storm rises.)
Rag. The storm’s on wing, comes powdering from the Nore;
Tis past the Alps already, and whirls forward
To th’ Appenine, whose rifted snow is swept
To th’ vales beneath, while cots and folds lie buried.
Thou Myrza tak’st to-night an airy march
To th’ Pontic shore for drugs; and for more speed
On my own maple crutch thou shalt be mounted,
Which bridled turns to a steed so manageable,
That thou may’st rein him with a spider’s thread.
4th W. And how if I o’ertake a bark in the way?
Rag. Then, if aloft thou goest, to tinder scorch
The fauns; but if thou tak’st a lower cut,
Then snatch the whips off from the steersman’s hand,
And sowce him in the foam.
4th W. He shall be drench’d.
(storm thickens.)
Rag. Aye, this is music! now methinks I hear
The shrieks of sinking sailors, tackle rent,
Rudders unhing’d, while the sea-raveners swift
Scour thro’ the dark flood for the diving corpses.
(the owl cries.)