Let us, she cries, but to a trial come,

And if she conquers, let her fix my doom.”

“One at the loom so excellently skilled, That to the goddess she refused to yield. Low was her birth, and small her native town, She from her art alone obtained renown. ⋮ Nor would the work, when finished, please so much, As, while she wrought, to view each graceful touch; Whether the shapeless wool in balls she wound, Or with quick motion turned 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 even the goddess at her work defies; Disowns her lieavcnly 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.”