Where are the bay-leaves, Thestylis, and the charms?
Fetch all; with fiery wool the cauldron crown;
Let glamour win me back my false lord's heart!
Twelve days the wretch hath not come nigh to me,
Nor made enquiry if I die or live,
His fancy wanders otherwhere:
The slave of Aphrodite and of Love.
But I'll charm him now - with witcheries potent.
Shine out fair, O moon! All hail, dread Hecate:
Dweller in the shades, at whose approach
E'en the dogs quake, as on she moves through blood
And darkness and the barrows of the slain.
Turn, magic wheel - as we ignite the grain.
Nay, pile it on:
Where are thy wits flown, timorous Thestylis?
This tassel from his robe I shred thus
And cast it on the raging flames --
And, by the Fates,
He'll soon be knocking at the gates of hell.