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.

Suspition of friend, nor feare of foe,
That hazarded his health, had he at all,
But walkt at will, and wandred too and fro,
In the pride of his freedome principall*: 380
Litle wist he his fatall future woe,
But was secure; the liker he to fall.
He likest is to fall into mischaunce,
That is regardles of his governaunce.