He still continu'd looking on the ground,
Nor more, at this had rais'd his guilty head,
Than th' drooping poppy on its tender stalk.
Nor when I had done, did I less repent of my ridiculous passion, and with a conscious blush, began to think, how unaccountable it was, that forgetting all shame, I shou'd contend with that part of me, that all men of sence, reckon not worth their thoughts. A little after, relapsing to my former humour: But what's the crime, began I, if by a natural complaint I was eas'd of my grief? or how is it, that we blame our stomachs or bellies, when 'tis our heads that are distemper'd? Did not Ulysses beat his breast, as if that had disturb'd him? And don't we see the actors punish their eyes, as if they heard the tragick scene? Those that have the gout in their legs, swear at them; Those that have it in their fingers, do so by them: Those that have sore eyes, are angry with their eyes.
Why do the strickt-liv'd Cato's of the age,
At my familiar lines so gravely rage?
In measures loosly plain, blunt satyr flows,
And all the people so sincerely shows.
For whose a stranger to the joys of love?
Who, can't the thoughts of such lost pleasures move?
Such Epicurus own'd the chiefest bliss,
And such lives the gods themselves possess.
There's nothing more deceitful than a ridiculous opinion, nor more ridiculous, than an affected gravity. After this, I call'd Gito to me; and "tell me," said I, "but sincerely, whether Ascyltos, when he took you from me, pursu'd the injury that night, or was chastly content to lye alone?" The boy with his finger at his eyes, took a solemn oath, that he had no incivility offer'd him by Ascyltos.
This drove me to my wits end, nor did I well know what to say: For why, I consider'd, shou'd I think of the twice mischievous accident that lately befell me? At last, I did what I cou'd to recover my vigour: and willing to invoke the assistance of the gods, I went out to pay my devotions to Priapus, and as wretched as I was, did not despair, but kneeling at the entry of the chamber, thus beseecht the god:
"Bacchus and Nymphs delight, O mighty God!
Whom Cynthia gave to rule the blooming wood.
Lesbos and verdant Thasos thee adore,
And Lydians, in loose flowing dress implore,
And raise devoted temples to thy power.
Thou Dryad's joy, and Bacchus's guardian, hear
My conscious prayer, with an attentive ear.
My hands with guiltless blood I never stain'd,
Or sacrilegiously the gods prophan'd.
To feeble me, restoring blessings send,
I did not thee, with my whole self offend.
Who sins thro' weakness is less guilty thought,
Be pacify'd, and spare a venial fault.
On me, when smiling fate shall smiling gifts bestow,
I'll not ungrateful to thy godhead go.
A destin'd goat shall on thy altar lye,
And the horn'd parent of my flock shall dye.
A sucking pig appease thy injur'd shrine,
And hallow'd bowls o're-flow with generous wine.
Then thrice thy frantick votaries shall round
Thy temple dance, with youth and garlands crown'd,
In holy drunkenness thy orgies sound."
While I was thus at prayers, an old woman, with her hair about her eyes, and disfigur'd with a mournful habit, coming in, disturb'd my devotions; when taking hold of me, she drew all fear out of the entry; and "what hag," said she, "has devour'd your manhood? Or what ominous carcase have you stumbl'd over in your nightly walks? You have not acquitted your self above a boy; but faint, weak, and like a horse o'recharg'd in a steep, tyr'd have lost your toyl and sweat; nor content to sin alone, but have unreveng'd against me, provokt the offended gods?"
When leading me, obedient to all her commands, a second time to the cell of a neighbouring priestess of Priapus, she threw me upon the bed, and taking up a stick that fastened the door, reveng'd her self on me, that very patiently receiv'd her fury: and at the first stroak, if the breaking of the stick had not lessned its force, she might have broke my head and arm.
I groan'd, and hiding with my arm my head, in a flood of tears lean'd on the pillow: Nor did she then, less troubled, sit on the bed, and began in a shrill voice, to blame her age, till the priestess came in upon us; and "what," said she, "do you do in my chappel, as if some funeral had lately been, rather than a holy-day, in which, even the mournful are merry?"
"Alas, my Enothea!" said she, "this youth was born under an ill star; for neither boy nor maid can raise him to a perfect appetite; you ne're beheld a more unhappy man: In his garden the weak willow, not the lusty cedar grows; in short, you may guess what he is, that cou'd rise unblest from Circe's bed."