[Verses by W. Shakespeare “The Tragedy Of Macbeth”; music by Eugen] 



Three warlocks and nine witches have gathered for the summoning of Devil in the tenebrious 

glade within Nebelforst on Sabbath. Bodeful thunderous Night. The warlocks boil the loathsome 

ointment in the silvern cauldron, tapestried with pelt and glyph-scored with druids’ hierograms. 

They troll incantations and stir the potion at the same time. 

The rite of Invocation begins! 



[First warlock:] Thrice the branded cat hath mew’d. 

[Second warlock:] Thrice, and once the hedge-pig whin’d. 

[Third warlock:] Harpier cries, ‘tis time, ‘tis time. 



[First warlock (whose patrimonial name – noble Morphiy):] 

Round ‘bout the cauldron go 

In the poison’d entrails throw. 

Toad, that under frosty stone, 

Days and nights, has thirty one 

Swelter’d venom sleeping got, 

Boil thou first i’ th’ charmed pot... with rot! 



[Chant of witches:] 

Double, double, toil and trouble 

Fire burn, and cauldron bubble. 



Fillet of a fenny snake, 

In the cauldron boil and bake 

Eye of newt, and toe of frog, 

Wool of bat, and tongue of dog 

Adder’s fork, and blind-worm’s sting, 

Lizard’s leg, and howlet’s wing 

For a charm of powerful trouble, 

Like a hell-broth, boil and bubble. 



[Chant of witches:] 

Double, double, toil and trouble 

Fire burn, and cauldron bubble. 



[Second warlock (bemoaned after death without name):] 

Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf, 

Witch’s mummy, maw, and gulf 

Of the ravin’d salt-sea shark 

Root of hemlock, digg’d i’ th’ dark 

Liver of blaspheming jew, 

Gall of goat, and slips of yew, 

Sliver’d in the moon’s eclipse 

Nose of Turk, and Tartar’s lips 

Finger of birth-strangled babe, 

Ditch-deliver’d by a drab, 

Make the gruel thick, and slab. 

Add thereto a tiger’s chaudron, 

For th’ ingredients of our cauldron. 



[Third warlock (initiate in air host of Merezin):] 

Cool it with a baboon’s blood, 

Then the charm is firm and good. 



First warlock: By the pricking of my thumbs, 

Something wicked this way comes 

Open locks, whoever knocks. 



In lieu of any fiend from netherworld Sabbat evoked by incantations and hellbroth-irrigation the mighty spirit of the dead gothic king Germanareh. Weening that it’s someone of arch-fiends, the witches were improvising the ritual dance around the dazed ghost. The supreme warlock frowned ordinees into doing the kiss of shame. The King’s spirit set to improve by the puissant spellcraft of that coven. When his besotted tendance had finished this darksome solemnization of demonolatry Germanareh bid them to summon acolytes for him – “the spirits of those mounts” as he titled them. He cerebrated that while the warlocks were summoning the pucks as they bethought they would revive the departed gothic warriors, which inearthed upon that tumulus too. They’ll resurge and minister their almighty sovereign anew. 



[Phoenixed Spirit of Germanareh:] 

O well done, I commend your pains, 

And every one shall in the gains 

And now about the cauldron sing 

Like elves and fairies in a ring, 

Enchanting all that you put in 



I am King!