TIR. Choose the darkest part o' th' grove,
Such as ghosts at noonday love.
Dig a trench, and dig it nigh
Where the bones of Laius lie;
Altars raised, of turf or stone,
Will th' infernal powers have none,
Answer me, if this be done?
ALL PR. 'Tis done.
TIR. Is the sacrifice made fit?
Draw her backward to the pit:
Draw the barren heifer back;
Barren let her be, and black.
Cut the curl'd hair that grows
Full betwixt her horns and brows:
And turn your faces from the sun,
Answer me, if this be done?
ALL PR. 'Tis done.
TIR. Pour in blood, and blood-like wine,
To Mother Earth and Proserpine:
Mingle milk into the stream;
Feast the ghosts that love the steam:
Snatch a brand from funeral pile:
Toss it in to make them boil;
And turn your faces from the sun,
Answer me, if this be done?
ALL PR. 'Tis done.