Oft, to admire the niceness of her skill, The nymphs would quit their fountain, shade, or hill; Thither, from green Tymolus, they repair, And leave the vineyards, their peculiar care: Thither, from famed Partolus’ 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 heavenly mistress every hour, Nor asks her aid, nor deprecates her power. “Let us,” she cries, “but to a trial come, And, if she conquers, let her fix my doom.”

The goddess then a beldam’s form put on; With silver hairs her hoary temples shone; Propp’d hy a staff, she hobbles in her walk, And, tottering, thus begins her old wives’ talk: