And that distill’d by magic sleights Shall raise such artificial sprites As by the strength of their illusion Shall draw him on to his confusion: He shall spurn fate, scorn death, and bear He hopes ’bove wisdom, grace and fear: And you all know, security Is mortals’ chiefest enemy. Music and a song within: “ Come away, come away, ” etc. Hark! I am call’d; my little spirit, see, Sits in a foggy cloud, and stays for me. Exit.
Forres. The palace.