so much as a word or a sign, sitting on there

without a smile, accepting neither food nor drink

for an age, as she pined for her beautiful daughter,

until Iambe, resourceful as ever, took

her mind off things with jokes and funny stories,

making her smile first, then laugh, and feel better,

and Metaneira offered her the cup she had filled

with wine, sweet as honey: but she shook her head

and announced that, for her, it was not proper now

to take wine – instead, she asked Metaneira

to give her some barley-water and pennyroyal

mixed up together: the queen made this, and served it

to the great goddess, to Demeter,

who accepted it solemnly, and drank it down.

Only then did Metaneira begin to speak:

‘Madam, you are welcome here; all the more so

for coming from no ordinary stock

but, I’d say, from the best – for your every glance

is full of modesty and grace, you have something

almost royal about you. But what the gods give us,

hard though it is, we mere human beings

endure: all our necks are under that yoke.

You are here now, and whatever is mine shall be yours.

This little boy – my last born, scarcely hoped for,

granted me by the gods only after much prayer –

nurse him for me now, and if you raise him

to be a healthy, strong man, then any woman

at all will be jealous to see you, so great

will be the reward I give you for your work.’

Demeter replied: ‘Accept my greetings, good lady,

and may the gods be kind to you. I will indeed

take care of this fine boy of yours, as you ask.

I shall rear him, and neglect nothing: sudden sickness

will never harm him, and never will some witch

of the forest, who taps roots for magic or poison,

touch a single hair of his head; for I know

stronger sources to tap, and I know the remedy

for all such assaults: a sure one, unfailing.’

Then with her two arms, the arms of a goddess,

she drew the baby in close to her own bosom,

and its mother smiled at the sight. In the big house

from then on Demeter looked after the son

of Celeus and Metaneira, while he grew up

at a god’s rate, not eating solids, or taking

milk, but fed by her with ambrosia, as if

he were indeed a god, born of a god;

she breathed gently over him and kept him close,

and at night, unknown to anyone, she smuggled him

into the burning fire, like a new log of wood.

He was thriving so well, and looking so much more

than a human child, that both the parents were amazed.

And the goddess Demeter would have delivered him

from age and from death, had not Metaneira

been up one night and, without so much as

giving it a thought, from her own bedroom