The name it bears; and Moly[11] they impose For name to it. The root is hard to loose From hold of earth by mortals; but God’s pow’r Can all things do. ’Tis black, but bears a flow’r As white as milk. And thus flew Mercury Up to immense Olympus, gliding by The sylvan island. I made back my way To Circe’s house, my mind of my assay Much thought revolving. At her gates I stay’d And call’d; she heard, and her bright doors display’d, Invited, led; I follow’d in, but trac’d With some distraction. In a throne she plac’d My welcome person; of a curious frame ’Twas, and so bright I sat as in a flame; A foot-stool added. In a golden bowl She then suborn’d a potion, in her soul Deform’d things thinking; for amidst the wine She mix’d her man-transforming medicine; Which when she saw I had devour’d, she then No more observ’d me with her soothing vein, But struck me with her rod, and to her stye Bad, out, away, and with thy fellows lie. I drew my sword, and charg’d her, as I meant To take her life. When out she cried, and bent Beneath my sword her knees, embracing mine, And, full of tears, said: ‘Who? Of what high line Art thou the issue? Whence? What shores sustain Thy native city? I amaz’d remain That, drinking these my venoms, th’ art not turn’d. Never drunk any this cup but be mourn’d In other likeness, if it once had pass’d The ivory bounders of his tongue and taste. All but thyself are brutishly declin’d. Thy breast holds firm yet, and unchang’d thy mind. Thou canst be therefore none else but the man Of many virtues, Ithacensian, Deep-soul’d, Ulysses, who; I oft was told, By that sly God that bears the rod of gold, Was to arrive here in retreat from Troy. Sheathe then thy sword, and let my bed enjoy So much a man, that when the bed we prove, We may believe in one another’s love.’ I then: ‘O Circe, why entreat’st thou me To mix in any human league with thee, When thou my friends hast beasts turn’d; and thy bed Tender’st to me, that I might likewise lead A beast’s life with thee, soften’d, naked stripp’d, That in my blood thy banes may more be steep’d? I never will ascend thy bed, before, I may affirm, that in heav’n’s sight you swore The great oath of the Gods, that all attempt To do me ill is from your thoughts exempt.’ I said, she swore, when, all the oath-rites said, I then ascended her adornéd bed, But thus prepar’d: Four handmaids served her there, That daughters to her silver fountains were, To her bright-sea-observing sacred floods, And to her uncut consecrated woods. One deck’d the throne-tops with rich cloths of state, And did with silks the foot-pace consecrate. Another silver tables set before The pompous throne, and golden dishes’ store Serv’d in with sev’ral feast. A third fill’d wine. The fourth brought water, and made fuel shine In ruddy fires beneath a womb of brass. Which heat, I bath’d; and od’rous water was Disperpled lightly on my head and neck, That might my late heart-hurting sorrows check