And, first, of spittle a lustration makes; Then in the spawl her middle-finger dips, Anoints the temples, forehead, and the lips, Pretending force of magic to prevent, By virtue of her nasty excrement; Then dandles him with many a muttered prayer, That heaven would make him some rich miser's heir, Lucky to ladies, and in time a king; Which to ensure, she adds a length of navel-string. But no fond nurse is fit to make a prayer, And Jove, if Jove be wise, will never hear; Not though she prays in white, with lifted hands. A body made of brass the crone demands For her loved nursling, strung with nerves of wire, Tough to the last, and with no toil to tire; Unconscionable vows, which, when we use, We teach the gods, in reason, to refuse. Suppose they were indulgent to thy wish, Yet the fat entrails in the spacious dish Would stop the grant; the very over-care And nauseous pomp, would hinder half the prayer. Thou hop'st with sacrifice of oxen slain To compass wealth, and bribe the god of gain To give thee flocks and herds, with large increase; Fool! to expect them from a bullock's grease! And think'st that when the fattened flames aspire, Thou see'st the accomplishment of thy desire! Now, now, my bearded harvest gilds the plain, } The scanty folds can scarce my sheep contain, } And showers of gold come pouring in amain! } Thus dreams the wretch, and vainly thus dreams on, Till his lank purse declares his money gone. Should I present them with rare figured plate, Or gold as rich in workmanship as weight; O how thy rising heart would throb and beat, And thy left side, with trembling pleasure, sweat! Thou measur'st by thyself the powers divine; Thy gods are burnished gold, and silver is their shrine. The puny godlings of inferior race, Whose humble statues are content with brass, Should some of these, in visions purged from phlegm, Foretel events, or in a morning dream;[200] Even those thou would'st in veneration hold, And, if not faces, give them beards of gold. The priests in temples now no longer care For Saturn's brass,[201] or Numa's earthen ware;[202] Or vestal urns, in each religious rite; This wicked gold has put them all to flight. O souls, in whom no heavenly fire is found, Fat minds, and ever grovelling on the ground! We bring our manners to the blest abodes, And think what pleases us must please the gods. Of oil and cassia one the ingredients takes, And, of the mixture, a rich ointment makes; Another finds the way to dye in grain, And makes Calabrian wool[203] receive the Tyrian stain; Or from the shells their orient treasure takes, Or for their golden ore in rivers rakes, Then melts the mass. All these are vanities,