And there burns hot as Aetna's raging fires.
My loom stands empty and my listless hands
Drop idly from their tasks. No more I care105
To make my votive offerings to the gods,
Nor, with the Athenian women mingled, dance
Around their sacred shrines, and conscious brands
Toss high in secret rites. I have no heart
With chaste and pious prayers to worship her,
That mighty goddess who was set to guard
This Attic land. My only joy is found110