Page:Ovid's Metamorphoses (Vol. 1) - tr Garth, Dryden, et. al. (1727).djvu/249

Still may remotest Fame your Labours crown,
And Mortals your superior Genius own;
But to the Goddess yield, and humbly meek
A Pardon for your bold Presumption seek;
The Goddess will forgive. At this the Maid,
With Passion fir'd, her gliding Shuttle stay'd;
And, darting Vengeance with an angry Look,
To Pallas in Disguise thus fiercely spoke.
⁠Thou doating Thing, whose idle babling Tongue
But too well shews the Plague of living long;
Hence, and reprove, with this your sage Advice,
Your giddy Daughter, or your awkward Neice;
Know, I despise your Counsel, and am still
A Woman, ever wedded to my Will;
And, if your skillful Goddess better knows,
Let her accept the Tryal I propose.
⁠She does, impatient Pallas strait replies,
And, cloath'd with heavenly Light, sprung from her odd Disguise.
The Nymphs, and Virgins of the Plain adore
The awful Goddess, and confess her Pow'r;
The Maid alone stood unappall'd; yet show'd
A transient Blush, that for a Moment glow'd,
Then disappear'd; as purple Streaks adorn
The opening Beauties of the rosy Morn;
Till Phœbus rising prevalently bright,
Allays the Tincture with his purple Light.
Yet she persists, and obstinately great,
In Hopes of Conquest hurries on her Fate.
The Goddess now the Challenge waves no more
Nor, kindly good, advises as before.
Strait to their Posts appointed both repair,
And fix their threaded Looms with equal Care:
Around the solid Beam the Web is ty'd,
While hollow Canes the parting Warp divide;

Thro'