Thirsty at last by long fatigue she grows, But meets no spring, no riv’let near her flows: Then looking round, a lowly cottage spies, Smoking among the trees, and thither hies. The goddess knocking at the little door, ’Twas open’d by a woman old and poor, Who, when she begg’d for water, gave her ale Brew’d long, but well preserved from being stale. The goddess drank: a chuffy lad was by, Who saw the liquor with a grudging eye, And grinning cries, “She’s greedy more than dry.”