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The witch pot that it slowly simmers still?
We shall be late—how dost thou mean to ride?
Eighth Witch.
I' th' tail of the comet, as it shoots across
From pole to pole the boundless fields of air,
I hold my rapid midnight course, and where
The last pearl-diver sank to rise no more,
Drop in the gulf and search for his white bones,
And plant my feet deep in the slimy ooze
Accumulations of a thousand years,
Unctuous and green, the fat of the sea wave,
And dare the ocean monsters as they gaze
With their round dull, yet, fiercely cruel eyes
Stupid, untameable, I love to rouse
The only feeling of their brutishness,
Their horrid thirst for banqueting on blood;
Then mount a dolphin's back, and swim away
Far, far beyond their reach.
