Of waters spouting from his nostrils; high
In air the rainbow columns rise.
Third Witch.
I seek
The flame-encircled Mercury, and bathe
In floods of fire. The air is molten gold,
The glorious sun shines cloudless, and the earth
Glows like a furnace. Our poor tropics seem
Bleak in comparison! By Heaven, there are
Some glorious creatures hatched so near the sun,
Death with his cold damp touch hath never dared
Invade the burning region.
Fourth Witch.
To a vale—
An Indian vale, fraught with rich musky balm
From ever-blowing roses, whose bright leaves
Drop in a crimson shower amid the stars
The jasmine sheds upon the flower-strewed earth,
Couched in a lotus bark, I steer my flight.
The sultry sun hath sunk—the dewy air
