And begs an alms; an high-priest's daughter she, } Versed in their Talmud, and divinity, } And prophesies beneath a shady tree. } Her goods a basket, and old hay her bed, She strolls, and, telling fortunes, gains her bread: Farthings, and some small monies, are her fees; Yet she interprets all your dreams for these, Foretels the estate, when the rich uncle dies, And sees a sweetheart in the sacrifice. Such toys, a pigeon's entrails can disclose, Which yet the Armenian augur far outgoes; In dogs, a victim more obscene, he rakes; And murdered infants for inspection takes: For gain his impious practice he pursues; For gain will his accomplices accuse. More credit yet is to Chaldeans[130] given; What they foretel, is deemed the voice of heaven. Their answers, as from Hammon's altar, come; Since now the Delphian oracles are dumb, And mankind, ignorant of future fate, Believes what fond astrologers relate. Of these the most in vogue is he, who, sent Beyond seas, is returned from banishment; His art who to aspiring Otho[131] sold, And sure succession to the crown foretold; For his esteem is in his exile placed; The more believed, the more he was disgraced. No astrologic wizard honour gains, Who has not oft been banished, or in chains. He gets renown, who, to the halter near, But narrowly escapes, and buys it dear. From him your wife enquires the planets' will, When the black jaundice shall her mother kill; Her sister's and her uncle's end would know, But, first, consults his art, when you shall go; And,--what's the greatest gift that heaven can give,-- If after her the adulterer shall live. She neither knows, nor cares to know, the rest, If Mars and Saturn[132] shall the world infest; Or Jove and Venus, with their friendly rays, Will interpose, and bring us better days. Beware the woman too, and shun her sight, Who in these studies does herself delight, By whom a greasy almanack is born, With often handling, like chaft amber worn: Not now consulting, but consulted, she Of the twelve houses, and their lords, is free. She, if the scheme a fatal journey show, Stays safe at home, but lets her husband go. If but a mile she travel out of town, The planetary hour must first be known, And lucky moment; if her eye but aches, Or itches, its decumbiture she takes; No nourishment receives in her disease, But what the stars and Ptolemy[133] shall please. The middle sort, who have not much to spare, } To chiromancers' cheaper art repair, } Who clap the pretty palm, to make the lines more fair. } But the rich matron, who has more to give,