Then, going off, she sprinkled her with juice, Which leaves of baneful aconite produced. Touch’d with the pois’nous drug, her flowing hair Fell to the ground, and left her temples bare; Her usual features vanish’d from their place Her body lessen’d all, but most her face: Her slender fingers, hanging on each side, With many joints, the use of legs supplied; A spider’s bag the rest, from which she gives A thread, and still by constant weaving lives.