assigned a very short thread. Wotton, a young hero, whom an
unknown father of mortal race begot by stolen embraces with this
goddess. He was the darling of his mother above all her children,
and she resolved to go and comfort him. But first, according to
the good old custom of deities, she cast about to change her shape,
for fear the divinity of her countenance might dazzle his mortal
sight and overcharge the rest of his senses. She therefore
gathered up her person into an octavo compass: her body grow white
and arid, and split in pieces with dryness; the thick turned into
pasteboard, and the thin into paper; upon which her parents and
children artfully strewed a black juice, or decoction of gall and
soot, in form of letters: her head, and voice, and spleen, kept
their primitive form; and that which before was a cover of skin did
still continue so. In this guise she marched on towards the
Moderns, indistinguishable in shape and dress from the divine
Bentley, Wotton's dearest friend. "Brave Wotton," said the
goddess, "why do our troops stand idle here, to spend their present
vigour and opportunity of the day? away, let us haste to the
generals, and advise to give the onset immediately." Having spoke
thus, she took the ugliest of her monsters, full glutted from her
spleen, and flung it invisibly into his mouth, which, flying
straight up into his head, squeezed out his eye-balls, gave him a
distorted look, and half-overturned his brain. Then she privately
ordered two of her beloved children, Dulness and Ill-manners,
closely to attend his person in all encounters. Having thus
accoutred him, she vanished in a mist, and the hero perceived it
was the goddess his mother.

The destined hour of fate being now arrived, the fight began;
whereof, before I dare adventure to make a particular description,