Her right hand held a notebook; in her left she bore a staff. And when she saw the Muses of Poesy standing by my bedside, dictating the words of my lamentations, she was moved awhile to wrath, and her eyes flashed sternly. “Who,” said she, “has allowed yon playacting wantons to approach this sick man⁠—these who, so far from giving medicine to heal his malady, even feed it with sweet poison? These it is who kill the rich crop of reason with the barren thorns of passion, who accustom men’s minds to disease, instead of setting them free. Now, were it some common man whom your allurements were seducing, as is usually your way, I should be less indignant. On such a one I should not have spent my pains for naught. But this is one nurtured in the Eleatic and Academic philosophies. Nay, get ye gone, ye sirens, whose sweetness lasteth not; leave him for my muses to tend and heal!” At these words of upbraiding, the whole band, in deepened sadness, with downcast eyes, and blushes that confessed their shame, dolefully left the chamber.