The goddess hath my instruments destroy’d,
And as my loom hath brake, so hath my breast,
Delivered in its shards to show its worth
And being shown, revealing all its faults.
For fool was I, who challengèd the gods,
In jest, perhaps, but even so, a sin;
For though indeed my skill the greater was,
It weaken’d with the pride with which it paired:
One needle more I think I’ll thread,
The eye of grass, the strand this head.