Where are the bay-leaves, Thestylis, and the charms? 
    Fetch all; with fiery wool the caldron 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,
    Nor clamoured (oh unkindness!) at my door. 
    Sure his swift fancy wanders otherwhere,
    The slave of Aphrodite and of Love. 
    I’ll off to Timagetus’ wrestling-school
    At dawn, that I may see him and denounce
    His doings; but I’ll charm him now with charms. 
    So shine out fair, O moon!  To thee I sing
    My soft low song:  to thee and Hecate
    The 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. 
    All hail, dread Hecate:  companion me
    Unto the end, and work me witcheries
    Potent as Circe or Medea wrought,
    Or Perimede of the golden hair!
      Turn, magic wheel, draw homeward him I love. 
    First we ignite the grain.  Nay, pile it on: 
    Where are thy wits flown, timorous Thestylis? 
    Shall I be flouted, I, by such as thou? 
    Pile, and still say, ‘This pile is of his bones.’
      Turn, magic wheel, draw homeward him I love. 
    Delphis racks me:  I burn him in these bays. 
    As, flame-enkindled, they lift up their voice,
    Blaze once, and not a trace is left behind: 
    So waste his flesh to powder in yon fire!
      Turn, magic wheel, draw homeward him I love. 
    E’en as I melt, not uninspired, the wax,
    May Mindian Delphis melt this hour with love: 
    And, swiftly as this brazen wheel whirls round,
    May Aphrodite whirl him to my door.
      Turn, magic wheel, draw homeward him I love. 
    Next burn the husks.  Hell’s adamantine floor
    And aught that else stands firm can Artemis move. 
    Thestylis, the hounds bay up and down the town: 
    The goddess stands i’ the crossroads:  sound the gongs.
      Turn, magic wheel, draw homeward him I love. 
    Hushed are the voices of the winds and seas;
    But O not hushed the voice of my despair. 
    He burns my being up, who left me here
    No wife, no maiden, in my misery.
      Turn, magic wheel, draw homeward him I love. 
    Thrice I pour out; speak thrice, sweet mistress, thus: 
    “What face soe’er hangs o’er him be forgot
    Clean as, in Dia, Theseus (legends say)
    Forgat his Ariadne’s locks of love.”
      Turn, magic, wheel, draw homeward him I love. 
    The coltsfoot grows in Arcady, the weed
    That drives the mountain-colts and swift mares wild. 
    Like them may Delphis rave:  so, maniac-wise,
    Race from his burnished brethren home to me.
      Turn, magic wheel, draw homeward him I love. 
    He lost this tassel from his