Rouse but old Myrtila, the nurse, and give her
The least occasion, and she'll talk for ever:
With far less art and ease you may restrain
The sounding cymbals of Dodona's fane,
(Which, if but touch'd, the holy Augur hears
The live-long day remurmur'd in his ears)
Than still this chattering crone, who with her tales
Torments the weary night as soon as evening fails.