“ ‘Near Troezen stands a hill, exposed in air To winter winds of leafy shadows bare: This once was level ground: but (strange to tell) The included vapours, that in caverns dwell, Labouring with colic pangs, and close confined, In vain sought issue for the rumbling wind: Yet still they heaved for vent, and heaving still Enlarged the concave, and shot up the hill; As breath extends a bladder, or the skins Of goats are blown to enclose the hoarded wines: The mountain yet retains a mountain’s face, And gather’d rubbish heals the hollow space. Of many wonders which I heard, or knew, Retrenching most, I will relate but few: What, are not springs with qualities opposed, Endued at seasons, and at seasons lost? Thrice in a day thine, Ammon, change their form, Cold at high noon, at morn and evening warm: Thine, Athaman, will kindle wood, if thrown On the piled earth, and in the waning moon. The Thracians have a stream, if any try The taste, his harden’d bowels petrify; Whate’er it touches, it converts to stones, And makes a marble pavement where it runs.