Here you will find the Long Poem Metamorphoses: Book The Sixth of poet Ovid

Metamorphoses: Book The Sixth

PALLAS, attending to the Muse's song,
 Approv'd the just resentment of their wrong;
 And thus reflects: While tamely I commend
 Those who their injur'd deities defend,
 My own divinity affronted stands,
 And calls aloud for justice at my hands;
 Then takes the hint, asham'd to lag behind,
 And on Arachne' bends her vengeful mind;
 One at the loom so excellently skill'd,
 That to the Goddess she refus'd to yield.
 The Low was her birth, and small her native town,
 Transformation She from her art alone obtain'd renown.
 of Arachne Idmon, her father, made it his employ,
 into a Spider To give the spungy fleece a purple dye:
 Of vulgar strain her mother, lately dead,
 With her own rank had been content to wed;
 Yet she their daughter, tho' her time was spent
 In a small hamlet, and of mean descent,
 Thro' the great towns of Lydia gain'd a name,
 And fill'd the neighb'ring countries with her fame.
 Oft, to admire the niceness of her skill,
 The Nymphs would quit their fountain, shade, or
 Thither, from green Tymolus, they repair,
 And leave the vineyards, their peculiar care;
 Thither, from fam'd Pactolus' golden stream,
 Drawn by her art, the curious Naiads came.
 Nor would the work, when finish'd, please so much,
 As, while she wrought, to view each graceful touch;
 Whether the shapeless wool in balls she wound,
 Or with quick motion turn'd the spindle round,
 Or with her pencil drew the neat design,
 Pallas her mistress shone in every line.
 This the proud maid with scornful air denies,
 And ev'n the Goddess at her work defies;
 Disowns her heav'nly mistress ev'ry hour,
 Nor asks her aid, nor deprecates her pow'r.
 Let us, she cries, but to a tryal come,
 And, if she conquers, let her fix my doom.
 The Goddess then a beldame's form put on,
 With silver hairs her hoary temples shone;
 Prop'd by a staff, she hobbles in her walk,
 And tott'ring thus begins her old wives' talk.
 Young maid attend, nor stubbornly despise
 The admonitions of the old, and wise;
 For age, tho' scorn'd, a ripe experience bears,
 That golden fruit, unknown to blooming years:
 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 aukward neice;
 Know, I despise your counsel, and am still
 A woman, ever wedded to my will;
 And, if your skilful 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 Phoebus rising prevalently bright,
 Allays the tincture with his silver 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' which with nimble flight the shuttles play,
 And for the woof prepare a ready way;
 The woof and warp unite, press'd by the toothy
 Thus both, their mantles button'd to their
 Their skilful fingers ply with willing haste,
 And work with pleasure; while they chear the eye
 With glowing purple of the Tyrian dye:
 Or, justly intermixing shades with light,
 Their colourings insensibly unite.
 As when a show'r transpierc'd with sunny rays,
 Its mighty arch along the heav'n displays;
 From whence a thousand diff'rent colours rise,
 Whose fine transition cheats the clearest eyes;
 So like the intermingled shading seems,
 And only differs in the last extreams.
 Then threads of gold both artfully dispose,
 And, as each part in just proportion rose,
 Some antique fable in their work disclose.
 Pallas in figures wrought the heav'nly Pow'rs,
 And Mars's hill among th' Athenian tow'rs.
 On lofty thrones twice six celestials sate,
 Jove in the midst, and held their warm debate;
 The subject weighty, and well-known to fame,
 From whom the city shou'd receive its