Satyrs and Fauns the poets feign'd
In woods and forests that remain'd,
Of rustic manners, plain and true,
The wiles of men who little knew.
A Traveller having lost his way,
Met one of those one winter's day;
A hearty welcome to his cave,
The hospitable Satyr gave;
The Traveller, half froze to death,
Blew on his fingers with his breath.
"Why do you so?" the Sylvan cried,
"To warm my hands," the man replied.
Then near a fire his guest he seated,
And soon some rustic porridge heated.
In haste, and not to scald his mouth,
The hungry Traveller blew the broth.
"Why blow you now i" the Satyr cries,
"To cool the soup," the man replies.
"How!" says the Sylvan, "cold and hot?
Why what a knave we here have got!
Begone; no intercourse I hold
With him that blows both hot and cold."
Source: Boothby - Avianus 8.
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