[* _Dryrihed_, sadness, unsightliness.]
This cursed creature, mindfull of that olde
Enfestred grudge the which his mother felt,
So soone as Clarion he did beholde, 355
His heart with vengefull malice inly swelt;
And weaving straight a net with mame a folde
About the cave in which he lurking dwelt,
With fine small cords about it stretched wide,
So finely sponne that scarce they could be spide, 360
Not anie damzell which her vaunteth most
In skilfull knitting of soft silken twyne,
Nor anie weaver, which his worke doth boast
In dieper, in damaske, or in lyne*,
Nor anie skil'd in workmanship embost, 365
Nor anie skil'd in loupes of fingring fine,
Might in their divers cunning ever dare
With this so curious networks to compare.
[* _Lyne_, linen.]
Ne doo I thinke that that same subtil gin
The which the Lemnian god framde craftilie, 370
Mars sleeping with his wife to compasse in,
That all the gods with common mockerie
Might laugh at them, and scorne their shamefull sin,
Was like to this. This same he did applie
For to entrap the careles Clarion, 375
That rang'd each where without suspition.
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