Where are my bay leaves? Bring them, Thestylis. And where are the love charms? Wreathe the bowl with a sheep's crimson wool, since I will spellbind the man I love, though he is cruel to me, who, the wretch, for twelve days now has not once come to me, nor does he know whether I am dead or alive. Nor has he knocked at my door, the brute. Surely Eros and Aphrodite have gone off elsewhere taking his fickle heart. Tomorrow I will go to Timagetus' wrestling school to see him, and I will reproach him for what he does to me. But now I will spellbind him with burnt offerings. Come, Moon, shine brightly; for to you, goddess, I will chant softly, and to Hecate of the underworld, whom even the dogs tremble at as she goes among the graves of the dead and the dark blood. Hail, dread Hecate, and stand by me to the end, making these drugs no weaker than Circe's, nor Medea's, nor golden-haired Perimede's.