{and I will make you smart for it."} She then led me,
unresisting, back into the priestess's room, pushed me down upon the bed,
snatched a cane that hung upon the door, and gave me another thrashing:
I remained silent and, had the cane not splintered at the first stroke,
thereby diminishing the force of the blow, she might easily have broken
my arms or my head. I groaned dismally, and especially when she
manipulated my member and, shedding a flood of tears, I covered my head
with my right arm and huddled down upon the pillow. Nor did she weep
less bitterly:

The sailor, naked from his foundered barque,
Some shipwrecked mariner seeks out to hear his woe;
When hail beats down a farmer's crop, his cark
Seeks consolation from another, too.
Death levels caste and sufferers unites,
And weeping parents are as one in grief;
We also will beseech the starry heights,
United prayers climb best, is the belief.

She seated herself upon the other side of the bed and in quavering tones
commenced to accuse the delays of old age. At last the priestess came
in. "Why," she cried, "what has brought you into my cell as if you were
visiting a newly made grave? And on a feast-day, too, when even mourners
ought to smile!" "OEnothea," the old hag replied, "this young man here
was born under an unlucky star: he can't dispose of his goods to either
boy or girl. Such an unfortunate fellow you never saw. He has no tool
at all, only a piece of leather soaked in water! I wish you would tell
me what you think of a man who could get up from Circe's bed without
having tasted pleasure!" On hearing these words, OEnothea sat down
between us and, after shaking her head for a while, "I'm the only one
that knows how to cure that disease," said she, "and for fear you think
I'm talking to hear myself talk, I'll just have the young fellow sleep
with me for a night, and if I don't make it as hard as horn!

All that you see in the world must give heed to my mandates;

Blossoming earth, when I will it, must languish, a desert.'

Riches pour forth, when I will it, from crags and grim boulders

Waters will spurt that will rival the Nile at its flooding

Seas calm their billows before me, gales silence their howlings,

Hearing my step! And the rivers sink into their channels;

Dragons, Hyrcanian tigers stand fast at my bidding!

Why should I tell you of small things? The image of Luna

Drawn by my