“Young maid attend, nor stubbornly despise The admonitions of the old and wise; For age, though 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 fired, her gliding shuttle stay’d, And, darting vengeance, with an angry look, To Pallas in disguise thus fiercely spoke:

“Thou doting thing, whose idle, babbling tongue But too well shows the plague of living long, Hence, and reprove, with this your sage advice, Your giddy daughter, or your awkward niece: Know I despise your counsel, and an still A woman, ever wedded to my will; And, if your skilful goddess better knows, Let her accept the trial I propose.”