To praise her beauty, scarcely was excused;
No flatt'ry pleasure gave, and she'd reply:
Good sister stay!—consider, we must die;
Each feature perishes:—'tis naught but clay;
And soon will worms upon our bodies prey:
Superior needle-work our fair could do;
The spindle turn at ease:—embroider too;
Minerva's skill, or Clotho's, could impart;
In tapestry she'd gained Arachne's art;
And other talents, too, the daughter showed;