Classic Poem

Syphax . Since heaven helpes not, deepest hell weele try.
Here in this desart the great soule of Charmes,
Dreadful Erictho lives whose dismall brow,
Contemnes all roofes or civill coverture.
Forsaken graves and tombes the Ghosts forcd out,
She joyes to inhabit.
Infernall Musicke plaies softly whilst Erichtho enters and when she speakes ceaseth .
A loathsome yellowe leannesse spreades her face
A heavy hell-like palenes loades hir cheekes
Unknowne to a cleare heaven: but if darke windes,
Or thick black cloudes drive back the blinded stars,
When her deep magicque makes forc'd heven quake
And thunder spite of Jove. Erichtho then
From naked graves stalkes out, heaves proud hir head,
With long unkemde haire loaden, and strives to snatch
The Night's quick sulphar : then she bursts up tombes
From half rot searcloths then she scrapes dry gummes
For hir black rites: but when she finds a corse
New gravd, whose entrailes yet not turne
To slymie filth with greedy havock then
She makes fierce spoile: and swells with wicked triumph
To bury hir leane knuckles in his eyes
Then doeth she knaw the pale and or'egrowne nailes
From his dry hand: but if she find some life
Yet lurking close she bites his gelled lips,
And sticking her black tongue in his drie throat,
She breathes dire murmurs, which inforce him beare
Her banefull secrets to the spirits of horror.
To her first sound, the Gods yeeld any harme,
As trembling once to heare a second charme,
She is —
ERICTHO . Here Syphax here, quake not, for know
I know thy thoughts, thou wouldst entreat our power, [. . .]