was laid. 
    The Heaven-born Circe, with her magic song,
    Ulysses’s men, did into monsters turn. 
    Proteus, with this assum’d, what shape he wou’d. 
    I, who this art so long have understood,
    Can send proud Ida’s top into the main,
    And make the billows bear it up again.’”

I shook with fear at such a romantick promise, and began more intensively to view the old woman:  Upon which, she cry’d out, “O Enothea, be as good as your word”; when, carefully wiping her hands, she lay down on the bed, and half smother’d me with kisses.

Enothea, in the middle of the altar, plac’d a turf-table, which she heapt with burning coals, and her old crack cup (for sacrifice) repair’d with temper’d pitch; when she had fixt it to the smoaking-wall from which she took it; putting on her habit, she plac’d a kettle by the fire, and took down a bag that hung near her, in which, a bean was kept for that use, and a very aged piece of a hog’s forehead, with the print of a hundred cuts out; when opening the bag, she threw me a part of the bean, and bid me carefully strip it.  I obey her command, and try, without daubing my fingers, to deliver the grain from its nasty coverings; but she, blaming my dullness, snatcht it from me, and skilfully tearing its shells with her teeth, spit the black morsels from her, that lay like dead flies on the ground.  How ingenious is poverty, and what strange arts will hunger teach?  The priestess seem’d so great a lover of this sort of life, that her humour appear’d in every thing about her, and her hut might be truly term’d, sacred to poverty.

    Here shines no glittering ivory set with gold,
    No marble covers the deluded mold,
    By its own wealth deluded; but the shrine
    With simple natural ornaments does shine. 
    Round Cere’s bower, but homely willows grow,
    Earthen are all the sacred bowls they know. 
    Osier the dish, sacred to use divine: 
    Both course and stain’d, the jug that holds the wine. 
    Mud mixt with straw, make a defending fort,
    The temple’s brazen studs, are knobs of dirt. 
    With rush and reed, is thatcht the hut it self,
    Where, besides what is on a smoaky shelf,
    Ripe service-berries into garlands bound,
    And savory-bunches with dry’d grapes are found. 
    Such a low cottage Hecale confin’d,
    Low was her cottage, but sublime her mind. 
    Her bounteous heart, a grateful praise shall crown,
    And muses make immortal her renown.

After which, she tasted of the flesh, and hanging the rest, old as her self, on the hook again; the rotten stool on which she was mounted breaking, threw her into the fire, her fall spilt the kettle, and what it held put out the fire; she burnt her elbow, and all her face was hid with the ashes that her fall had rais’d.