Upon this, Enothea fixt her self between us, and moving her head a while; “I,” said she, “am the only one that can give remedy for that disease; and not to delay it, let him sleep with me to-night; and next morning, examine how vigorous I shall have made him: “All Nature’s work my magick powers obey, The blooming earth shall wither and decay, And when I please, agen be fresh and gay. From rugged rocks, I make sweet waters flow, And raging billows to me humbly bow. With rivers, winds, when I command, obey, And at my feet, their fans contracted lay, Tygers and dragons too, my will obey, But these are small, when of my magick verse, Descending Cynthia does the power confess. When my commands, make trembling Phoebus reign, His fiery steeds, their journey back again. Such power have charms, by whose prevailing aid The fury of the raging bulls was laid. The Heaven-born Circe, with her magic song, Ulysses’s men, did unto monsters turn. Proteus, with this assum’d, what shape he wou’d. I, who this art so long have understood, Can send proud Ida’s top into the main, And make the billows bear it up again.” I shook with fear at such a romantick promise, and began more intensively to view the old woman; Upon which, she cry’d out, “O Enothea, be as good as your word”; when, carefully wiping her hands, she lay down on the bed, and half smother’d me with kisses. Enothea, in the middle of the altar, plac’d a turf-table, which she heapt with burning coals, and her old crack cup (for sacrifice) repair’d with temper’d pitch; when she had fixt it to the smoaking-wall from which she took it; putting on her habit, she plac’d a kettle by the fire, and took down a bag that hung near her, in which, a bean was kept for that use, and a very aged piece of a hog’s forehead, with the print of a hundred cuts out; when opening the bag, she threw me a part of the bean, and bid me carefully strip it. I obey her command, and try, without daubing my fingers, to deliver the grain from its nasty coverings; but she, blaming my dullness, snatcht it from me, and skilfully tearing its shells with her teeth, spit the black morsels from her, that lay like dead flies on the ground. How ingenious is poverty, and what strange arts will hunger teach? The priestess seemed so great a lover of this sort of life, that her humor appear’d in every thing about her, and her hut might be truly term’d, sacred to poverty: