hand. "Well, Mr. Squeamish," she chirped, when she had greeted me, "have
you recovered your appetite?" In the meantime, the old hag:

A wine-soaked crone with twitching lips

brought out a twisted hank of different colored yarns and put it about my
neck; she then kneaded dust and spittle and, dipping her middle finger
into the mixture, she crossed my forehead with it, in spite of my
protests.

As long as life remains, there's hope;
Thou rustic God, oh hear our prayer,
Great Priapus, I thee invoke,
Temper our arms to dare!

When she had made an end of this incantation she ordered me to spit three
times, and three times to drop stones into my bosom, each stone she
wrapped up in purple after she had muttered charms over it; then,
directing her hands to my privates, she commenced to try out my virility.
Quicker than thought the nerves responded to the summons, filling the
crone's hand with an enormous erection! Skipping for joy, "Look,
Chrysis, look," she cried out, "see what a hare I've started, for someone
else to course!" (This done, the old lady handed me over to Chrysis, who
was greatly delighted at the recovery of her mistress's treasure; she
hastily conducted me straight to the latter, introducing me into a lovely
nook that nature had furnished with everything which could delight the
eye.)

Shorn of its top, the swaying pine here casts a
summer shade