As for you, pray to the gods to forgive your sacrilege!" The rich man can sail in a favoring gale And snap out his course at his pleasure; A Dance espouse, no Acrisius will rail, His credence by hers he will measure; Write verse, or declaim; snap the finger of scorn At the world, yet still win all his cases, The rabble will drink in his words with concern When a Cato austere it displaces.
At law, his "not proven," or "proved," he can have With Servius or Labeo vieing; With gold at command anything he may crave Is his without asking or sighing.
The universe bows at his slightest behest, For Jove is a prisoner in his treasure chest.
In the meantime, she scurried around and put a jar of wine under my hands and, when my fingers had all been spread out evenly, she purified them with leeks and parsley.

Then, muttering incantations, she threw hazel-nuts into the wine and drew her conclusions as they sank or floated; but she did not hoodwink me, for those with empty shells, no kernel and full of air, would of course float, while those that were heavy and full of sound kernel would sink to the bottom.

{She then turned her attention to the goose,} and, cutting open the breast, she drew out a very fat liver from which she foretold my future.

Then, for fear any trace of the crime should remain, she cut the whole goose up, stuck the pieces upon spits, and served up a very delectable dinner for me, whom, but a moment before, she had herself condemned to death, in her own words! Meanwhile, cups of unmixed wine went merrily around (and the crones greedily devoured the goose which they had but so lately lamented.

When the last morsel had disappeared, OEnothea, half-drunk by this time, looked at me and said, "We must now go through with the mysteries, so that you may get back your virility.").