In letting graces from their fingers fly,
To still their eyas[74] thoughts with industry;
That their plied wits in numbered silks might sing
Passion's huge conquest, and their needles[75] leading
Affection prisoner through their own-built cities,120
Pinioned with stones and Arachnean ditties.
Proceed we now with Hero's sacrifice:
She odours burned, and from their smoke did rise
Unsavoury fumes, that air with plagues inspired;
And then the consecrated sticks she fired.