Of her own web, weaved and unweaved again:
But that her Art was somewhat less, she thought,
And on a mere ignoble subject wrought.
130.
For here, like to the silkworm's industry,
Beauty itself out of itself did weave
So rare a work, and of such subtlety,
As did all eyes entangle and deceive;
And in all minds a strange impression leave.
In this sweet labyrinth did Cupid stray,