Riddle XXXV. A Coat of Mail

The dewy earth, wondrous cold, first brought me forth from its womb. I know in my thoughts I am not made of the fleeces of wool, of hairs, through excellent skill. Woofs are not wound round me, nor have I warp, nor does a thread of mine resound through the thrust of many strokes, nor does the whirring shuttle move in me, nor shall a weaver's rod smite me from anywhere. Silkworms, who deck the yellow precious web with adornments, did not weave me with the strength of the fates. Yet far and wide over the earth before men they will call me delightful. O thou skilled in cunning thoughts, learned in words, tell in true speech what is this garment.