Fenced round with spells, unhurt I venture Their sabbath strange where Witches keep; Fearless the Sorcerer’s circle enter, And woundless tread on snakes asleep. Lo! Here are charms of mighty power! This makes secure an Husband’s truth And this composed at midnight hour Will force to love the coldest Youth: If any Maid too much has granted, Her loss this Philtre will repair; This blooms a cheek where red is wanted, And this will make a brown girl fair! Then silent hear, while I discover What I in Fortune’s mirror view; And each, when many a year is over, Shall own the Gypsy’s sayings true. “Dear Aunt!” said Antonia when the Stranger had finished, “Is She not mad?” “Mad? Not She, Child; She is only wicked. She is a Gypsy, a sort of Vagabond, whose sole occupation is to run about the country telling lyes, and pilfering from those who come by their money honestly. Out upon such Vermin! If I were King of Spain, every one of them should be burnt alive who was found in my dominions after the next three weeks.” These words were pronounced so audibly that they reached the Gypsy’s ears. She immediately pierced through the Crowd and made towards the Ladies. She saluted them thrice in the Eastern fashion, and then addressed herself to Antonia. THE GYPSY “Lady! gentle Lady! Know, I your future fate can show; Give your hand, and do not fear; Lady! gentle Lady! hear!” “Dearest Aunt!” said Antonia, “Indulge me this once! Let me have my fortune told me!” “Nonsense, Child! She will tell you nothing but falsehoods.” “No matter; Let me at least hear what She has to say. Do, my dear Aunt! Oblige me, I beseech you!” “Well, well! Antonia, since you are so bent upon the thing, ... Here, good Woman, you shall see the hands of both of us. There is money for you, and now let me hear my fortune.” As She said this, She drew off her glove, and presented her hand; The Gypsy looked at it for a moment, and then made this reply. THE GYPSY “Your fortune? You are now so old, Good Dame, that ’tis already told: Yet for your money, in a trice I will repay you in advice. Astonished at your childish vanity, Your Friends all tax you with insanity, And grieve to see you use your art To catch some youthful Lover’s heart. Believe me, Dame, when all is done, Your age will still be fifty one; And Men will rarely take an hint Of love, from two grey eyes that squint. Take then my counsels; Lay aside Your paint and patches, lust and pride, And on the Poor those sums bestow, Which now are spent on useless show. Think on your Maker, not a Suitor; Think on your past faults, not on future; And think Time’s Scythe will quickly mow The few red hairs, which deck your brow.