makes one of her Wooers relate it.
Sweet Hope she gave to every Youth apart,
With well-taught Looks, and a deceitful Heart:
A Web she wove of many a slender Twine,
Of curious Texture, and perplext Design;
My Youths, she cry'd, my Lord but newly dead,
Forbear a while to court my widow'd Bed,
'Till I have wov'n, as solemn Vows require,
This Web, a Shrowd for poor Ulysses' Sir e.
His Limbs, when Fate the Hero's Soul demands,
Shall claim this Labour of his Daughter's Hands:
Lest all the Dames of Greece my Name despise,
While the great King without a Covering lies.
Thus she. Nor did my Friends mistrust the Guile.
All Day she sped the long laborious Toil:
But when the burning Lamps supply'd the Sun,
Each Night unravell'd what the Day begun.
Three live-long Summers did the Fraud prevail.
The Fourth her Maidens told th' amazing Tale.
These Eyes beheld, as close I took my Stand,
The backward Labours of her faithless Hand:
'Till watch'd at length, and press'd on every Side,
Her Task she ended, and commenc'd a Bride.
Footnote 1:
Public Mourning for Q. Anne, who died Aug. 1, 1714.
| [No. 607] | Friday, October 15, 1714 |