Ovid's Metamorphosis. Lib. 7.
Her Arms thrice turns about, thrice wets her crown
With gather'd dew, thrice yawns, and kneeling down;
Oh Night! thou friend to secrets you clear fires,
That with the Moon succeed when day retires.
Great Hecate, thou know'st and aid Imparts,
To our design, your Charms and Magick Arts:
And thou, oh Earth, that to Magicians yields
Thy powerful simples: Airs, Winds, Mountains, Fields,
Soft murmuring Springs, still Lakes and Rivers clear,