“Ceres was she who first our furrows plowed, Who gave sweet fruits and every good allowed.” […] “Some few there are of sordid mould Who barter youth and bloom for gold: But Hymen, gen’rous, just, and kind, Abhors the mercenary mind; Such rebels groan beneath his rod, For Hymen’s a vindictive god.” […] The priest then said, “Who is here?”