Soon doom’d herself a ruthless foe to find,
When in Actinia’s arms she lies entwined.
Here, prison’d by the vase’s crystal bound,
Impassable as Styx’s nine-fold round,
Quick she projects, as quick retracts again,
Her flexile toils, and tries her arts in vain;
Till languid grown, her fine machinery worn
By rapid friction, and her fringes torn,
Her full round orb wanes lank, and swift decay
Pervades her frame, till all dissolves away.