Page:Ovid's Metamorphoses (Vol. 1) - tr Garth, Dryden, et. al. (1727).djvu/248

166 Low was her Birth, and small her native Town, She from her Art alone obtain'd Renown. Idmon, her Father, made it his employ, To give the spungy Fleece a purple Dye: Of vulgar Strain her Mother, lately dead, With her own Rank had been content to wed; Yet she their Daughter, tho' her Time was spent In a small Hamlet, and of mean Descent, Thro' the great Towns of Lydia gain'd a Name, And fill'd the neighb'ring Countries with her Fame. Oft, to admire the Niceness of her Skill, The Nymphs would quit their Fountain, Shade, or Hill: Thither, from green Tymolus, they repair, And leave the Vineyards, their peculiar Care; Thither, from fam'd Pactolus' golden Stream, Drawn by her Art, the curious Naiads came. Nor would the Work, when finish'd, please so much; As, while she wrought, to view each graceful Touch; Whether the shapeless Wool in Balls she wound, Or with quick Motion turn'd the Spindle round, Or with her Pencil drew the neat Design, Pallas her Mistress shone in every Line. This the proud Maid with scornful Air denies, And ev'n the Goddess at her Work defies; Disowns her heav'nly Mistress ev'ry Hour, Nor asks her Aid, nor deprecates her Pow'r. Let us, she cries, but to a Tryal come, And, if she conquers, let her fix my Doom. The Goddess then a Beldame's Form put on, With silver Hairs her hoary Temples shone; Prop'd by a Staff, she hobbles in her Walk, And tott'ring thus begins her old Wives Talk. Young Maid attend, nor stubbornly despise The Admonition of the Old, and Wise; For Age, tho' scorn'd, a ripe Experience bears, That golden Fruit, unknown to blooming Years: Still