Sixth Witch.
The sport
I love to follow on Spitzbergen's shore.
Beneath the frowning icebergs, floundering seals
Perform their clumsy gambols on deep beds
Of drifted snow. I trace the sullen bear
Home to his den, or join him as he prowls
Along the cold inhospitable coast,
List to his low deep growl, and see him tear
His prey in savage joy.
Seventh Witch.
On the top
Of lofty Caucasus a hideous storm
Is brewing by the fiends of hell; the caves
Have let loose all their winds; the sooty clouds
Are filled with sulphur; in mere wantonness
The hurricane is hatched; and it might spend
Its idle fury o'er Tartarian wastes;
But I'll bestride the dingy scud, and lead
The tempest o'er the Euxine. There's a bark
