Her answers from the Brachman[134] will receive; Skilled in the globe and sphere, he gravely stands, And, with his compass, measures seas and lands. The poorest of the sex have still an itch To know their fortunes, equal to the rich. The dairy-maid enquires, if she shall take The trusty tailor, and the cook forsake. Yet these, though poor, the pain of childbed bear, And without nurses their own infants rear: You seldom hear of the rich mantle spread For the babe, born in the great lady's bed. Such is the power of herbs, such arts they use To make them barren, or their fruit to lose. But thou, whatever slops she will have bought, Be thankful, and supply the deadly draught; Help her to make man-slaughter; let her bleed, And never want for savin at her need. For, if she holds till her nine months be run, Thou may'st be father to an Ethiop's son;[135] A boy, who, ready gotten to thy hands, By law is to inherit all thy lands; One of that hue, that, should he cross the way, His omen would discolour all the day.[136] I pass the foundling by, a race unknown, At doors exposed, whom matrons make their own; And into noble families advance A nameless issue, the blind work of chance. Indulgent fortune does her care employ, And, smiling, broods upon the naked boy: Her garment spreads, and laps him in the fold, And covers with her wings from nightly cold: Gives him her blessing, puts him in a way, Sets up the farce, and laughs at her own play. Him she promotes; she favours him alone, And makes provision for him as her own. The craving wife the force of magic tries, And filters for the unable husband buys; The potion works not on the part designed, But turns his brains, and stupifies his mind. The sotted moon-calf gapes, and, staring on, Sees his own business by another done: A long oblivion, a benumbing frost, Constrains his head, and yesterday is lost. Some nimbler juice would make him foam and rave, Like that Cæsonia[137] to her Caius gave, Who, plucking from the forehead of the foal His mother's love,[138] infused it in the bowl; The boiling blood ran hissing in his veins, Till the mad vapour mounted to his brains. The Thunderer was not half so much on fire, When Juno's girdle kindled his desire. What woman will not use the poisoning trade, When Cæsar's wife the precedent has made? Let Agrippina's mushroom[139] be forgot, Given to a slavering, old, unuseful sot; That only closed the driv'ling dotard's eyes, And sent his godhead downward to the skies; But this fierce potion calls for fire and sword, Nor spares the commons, when it strikes the lord. So many mischiefs were in one combined; So much one single poisoner cost mankind. If step-dames seek their sons-in-law to kill,