First from his den rolls forth that load Of spite and hate, the speckl'd toad, And from his chaps a foam doth spawn, Such as the loathed three heads yawn; Defies his foe with a fell spit, To wade through death to meet with it; Then in his self the lymbeck turns, And his elixir'd poyson urns. Arachne, once the fear oth' maid<82.1> Coelestial, thus unto her pray'd: Heaven's blew-ey'd daughter, thine own mother! The Python-killing Sun's thy brother. Oh! thou, from gods that didst descend, With a poor virgin to contend, Shall seed of earth and hell ere be A rival in thy victorie? Pallas assents: for now long time And pity had clean rins'd her crime; When straight she doth with active fire Her many legged foe inspire. Have you not seen a charact<82.2> lie A great cathedral in the sea, Under whose Babylonian walls A small thin frigot almshouse stalls? So in his slime the toad doth float And th' spyder by, but seems his boat. And now the naumachie<82.3> begins; Close to the surface her self spins: Arachne, when her foe lets flye A broad-side of his breath too high, That's over-shot, the wisely-stout, Advised maid doth tack about; And now her pitchy barque doth sweat, Chaf'd in her own black fury wet; Lasie and cold before, she brings New fires to her contracted stings, And with discolour'd spumes doth blast The herbs that to their center hast. Now to the neighb'ring henbane top Arachne hath her self wound up, And thence, from its dilated leaves, By her own cordage downwards weaves, And doth her town of foe attack,<82.4> And storms the rampiers<82.5> of his back; Which taken in her colours spread, March to th' citadel of's head. Now as in witty torturing Spain, The brain is vext to vex the brain, Where hereticks bare heads are arm'd In a close helm, and in it charm'd An overgrown and meagre rat, That peece-meal nibbles himself fat; So on the toads blew-checquer'd scull The spider gluttons her self full. And vomiting her Stygian seeds, Her poyson on his poyson feeds. Thus the invenom'd toad, now grown Big with more poyson than his own, Doth gather all his pow'rs, and shakes His stormer in's disgorged lakes; And wounded now, apace crawls on To his next plantane surgeon,<82.6> With whose rich balm no sooner drest, But purged is his sick swoln breast; And as a glorious combatant, That only rests awhile to pant, Then with repeated strength and scars, That smarting fire him new to wars, Deals blows that thick themselves prevent, As they would gain the time he spent.