Metamorphoses by Ovid

Minerva pleas'd attention to the muse, While thus she spoke afforded; prais'd the song, And prais'd the just resentment of the maids. Then to herself;--"the vengeance others take, "Merely to praise were mean. I too should claim "Like praise, for like revenge; nor longer bear "My power contemn'd, by who unpunish'd live." And on Arachne, fair Maeoenian maid, She turns her vengeful mind; whose skill she heard Rivall'd her own in labors of the loom. No fame her natal town, no fame her sire On her bestow'd; her skill conferr'd renown. Idmon of Colophon, her humble sire Soak'd in the Phocian dye the spongy wool. Her mother, late deceas'd, from lowest stock, Had sprung; and wedded with an equal mate. Yet had she gain'd through all the Lydian towns For skill a mighty fame. Though born so low, Though small Hypaepe was her sole abode, Oft would the nymphs the vine-clad Tmolus leave To view her wonderous work. Oft would the nymphs In admiration quit Pactolus' waves. Nor pleasure only gave the finish'd robe, When view'd; but while she work'd she gave delight; Such comely grace in every turn appear'd. Whether she rounded into balls the wool; Or with her fingers mollify'd the fleece; And comb'd it floating light in cloudy waves; Or her smooth spindle twirl'd with agile thumb; Or with her needle painted: plain was seen Her skill from Pallas learnt. This to concede Unwilling, she ev'n such a tutor scorn'd Exclaiming:"come let her the contest try; "If vanquish'd, let her fix my well-earn'd fate."

Pallas, an ancient matron's form conceals; Grey hairs thin strew her temples, and a staff Supports her tottering limbs; while thus she speaks: "Old age though little priz'd, much good attends; "Experience always grows with lengthen'd years: "Spurn not my admonition. Great thy fame, "Midst mortals, for the wonders of the loom. "Great may it be, but to immortals yield: "Bold nymph retract, and pardon for thy words, "With suppliant voice require; Pallas will grant." Sternly the damsel views her; quits the threads Unfinish'd; scarce her hand from force restrains: And rage in all her features flushing fierce, Thus to the goddess, well-disguis'd, she speaks: "Weak dotard, spent with too great gift of years, "Curst with too long existence, hence, begone! "Such admonition to thy daughters give, "If daughters hast thou; or thy sons have wives: "Enough for me my inbred wisdom serves. "Hope not, that ought thy vain advice has sway'd "My purpose; still my challenge holds the same. "Why comes your goddess not? why shuns she still "The trying contest?" Then the goddess,--"Lo! "She comes,"--and flung her aged form aside, Minerva's form displaying. Every nymph, And every dame Mygdonian, lowly bent In veneration. While Arachne sole Stood stedfast, unalarm'd; but yet she blush'd. A sudden flush her angry face deep ting'd, But sudden faded pale. A ruddy glow Thus teints the early sky, when first the morn Arises; quickly from the solar ray Paling to brightness. On her purpos'd boast Still stubborn bent, she obstinately courts Her sure destruction, for the empty hope Of conquest in the strife so madly urg'd. No more Jove's maid refuses, gives no more Her empty admonitions, nor delays The contest: each her station straight assumes, Tighten each web; each slender thread prepare. Firm to the beam the cloth is fix'd; the reed The warp divides, with pointed shuttle, swift Gliding between; which quick their fingers throw, Quick extricate, and with the toothy comb Firm press'd between the warp, the threads unite. Both hasten now; their garments round them girt, Their skilful hands they ply: their toil forgot In anxious wish for conquest. There appear'd, The wool of Tyrian dye, and softening teints Lost imperceptible. So seems the arch Coloring a spacious portion of the sky; Struck by the rays of Phoebus, when the showers Recede, a thousand varying tinges shine; The soft transition mocks the straining eye, So like the shades which join, though far distinct Their distant teints. In slender threads they twist The pliant gold, and in the web display, Each as she works, an ancient story fair. Minerva paints the rock of Mars so fam'd In Cecrops' city, and the well-known strife To name the town. Twice six celestials sate On their high thrones, great Jupiter around In gravity majestic; every god Bore his celestial features. Jove appear'd In royal dignity. The Ocean power Standing she pictur'd, with his trident huge Smiting the rugged rock; from the cleft stone Leap'd forth a steed; and thence the town to name The privilege he claim'd. Herself she paints Shielded, and arm'd with keenly-pointed spear. Helm'd was her head; her breast the AEgis bore. Struck by her spear, the earth a hoary tree She shews producing, loaded thick with fruit. The wondering gods the gift admire; the prize To her awarded, ends the glorious work.