In a large cauldron now the med’cine boils, Compounded of her late collected spoils; Blending into the mesh the various powers Of wonder-working juices, roots, and flowers; With gems i’ the eastern ocean’s cell refined, And such as ebbing tides had left behind; To them the midnight’s pearly dew she flings, A screech-owl’s carcass, and ill-boding wings; Nor could the wizard wolf’s warm entrails ’scape (That wolf who counterfeits a human shape). Then, from the bottom of her conj’ring bag, Snakes’ skins, and liver of a long-lived stag; Last a crow’s head, to such an age arrived, That he had now nine centuries survived. These, and with these a thousand more that grew In sundry soils, into her pot she threw; Then with a wither’d olive-bough she rakes The bubbling broth; the bough fresh verdure takes; Green leaves at first the perish’d plant surround, Which the next minute with ripe fruit were crown’d. The foaming juices now the brink o’erswell; The barren heath, where’er the liquor fell, Sprang out with vernal grass, and all the pride Of blooming May. When this Medea spied,