“She does,” impatient Pallas straight replies, And, clothed with heavenly light, sprung from her odd disguise. The nymphs and virgins of the plain adore The awful goddess, and confess her power: 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. Straight to their posts appointed both repair, And fix their threaded looms with equal care: Around the solid beam the web is tied, While hollow canes the parting warp divide, Through 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 sley.