Penelope, for her Ulisses sake, Deviz'd a web her wooers to deceave, In which the worke that she all day did make, The same at night she did againe unreave. Such subtile craft my damzell doth conceave, Th' importune suit of my desire to shonne: For all that I in many dayes doo weave In one short houre I find by her undonne. So when I thinke to end that I begonne, I must begin and never bring to end: For with one looke she spils that long I sponne, And with one word my whole years work doth rend. Such labour like the spyders web I fynd, Whose fruitlesse worke is broken with least wynd. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE RETIRED CAT by WILLIAM COWPER TO ALFRED TENNYSON by WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR A BIRTHDAY by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI DRINKING SONG (2) by ALCAEUS OF MYTILENE THE JEWISH MARTYRS by W. V. B. A LUNCHEON (THOMAS HARDY ENTERTAINS THE PRINCE OF WALES) by HENRY MAXIMILIAN BEERBOHM NATALIA'S RESURRECTION: 7 by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT BRITANNIA'S PASTORALS: BOOK 1. THE EPISTLE DEDICATORY TO LORD ZOUCH by WILLIAM BROWNE (1591-1643) |