Bkiii:Xxiii Pure Hands

Phidyle, my country girl, if you raise your upturned palms to heaven, at the new-born moon, if you placate the Lares with corn from this year’s harvest, with a greedy pig: your fruiting vines won’t suffer the destructive southerlies, nor your crops the killing mildew, nor will the young of the flock be born in that sickly season, heavy with fruit. Since the destined victim, grazing, on snowy Algidus, amongst the oak and ilex trees, or fattening in the Alban meadows, will stain the axes of the priest with blood: there’s no need for you to try and influence the gods, with repeated sacrifice of sheep while you crown their tiny images with rosemary, and the brittle myrtle. If pure hands have touched the altar, even though they’ve not gratified with lavish sacrifice, they’ll mollify hostile Penates, with the sacred corn, and the dancing grain.