Weaving spiders come not near:
Our lovely queen bright and fair,
For her beauty radiates the world
And her lovely eyes makes me swirl.
All hail to th' most beautiful!
Who in passions is so merciful,
E'en to he that makes her mad
And yet she's never sad.
So irksome serpents come away!
Get thee packing and go thee hence:
Thy loathsome skins in disarray,
Shall take ye far and thence.
©brison
B